She couldn't remember how she got here as darkness encloses her like a heavy cloak. The night is chilly, and she is sure she can see her breath, but the dark room provides no confirmation. She begins feeling along the walls, slowly moving herself around the room, feeling for a door, a latch, anything that could free her from the crypt-like space she is in.

Only minutes before, she woke up, teeth chattering, muscles tight and atrophied from the damp cement floor. It took her a second to realize that she wasn’t at home. Like trying to wake up from a bad dream, she squeezes her eyes shut, but they flutter open, adjusting as well as they can to the blackness and she realizes that she is not in her bed, dreaming but that she is trapped somewhere. She wracks her brain for a memory, an explanation, but nothing comes. The last thing she remembers is calling down to her mother from her room the night before.

“I’m turning in, Mom” she yelled, “See you in the morning.”

No answer. That wasn’t unusual these days. Her mom’s hearing had been deteriorating for months and most evenings, she had the TV volume maxed out.

As she lay in her bed that night, she was grateful for the warm room and thick, plush bedspread. She plumped her pillows and sprayed her lavender-scented oil into the air, breathing in its musky, relaxing smell. She was asleep within minutes.

Now, she was cold. And in a place, she did not know. A small sliver of light shone through a cracked piece of the wall, and she beelined for it immediately. She grasped at the small cracks, putting her face up to feel the small amount of warmth that they provided. She tried to peer through it to get some sense of her surroundings, but the light just glared in, blinding her to anything outside.

She begins to breathe heavily and circle the small room frantically, pounding on the walls (which feel solid), and drags her feet heavily to keep from tripping on something. She thinks she should scream, but something stops her.

Sliding down the wall, she briefly succumbs to the situation. The cold floor instantly numbs her butt as she pulls her legs up to hug them, protecting herself from… what? What was going on? Where was she and who took her from her safe and cozy bed?

Slowly, more light begins to pierce through the small cracks in the wood, she can see now that she is in a shed of some sort. Light seems to enter through every side of the small space. She can almost see her hand, bringing it close to her face and reveling in the success of making out each finger. It feels a bit warmer. Her toes tingle, thawing out from their numbed, frozen state. While rubbing her arms together, she notices that her goosebumps have subsided. The skin is clammy and cool.

A crack outside. Like heavy footsteps on gravel. She freezes and holds her breath to be sure to not move a muscle.

A memory.

She and her mom were at the family cottage. She must have been 13 or 14 years old. Just getting to the age when you lose sight of the natural world a little bit. Caught up in inconsequential things like social media, fashion trends, and Harry Styles, she rarely collected rocks on the beach like she used to, or exclaimed in delight when a deer ran across the yard. But on this day, they were watching the robins together. There was a gigantic crab apple tree in their yard, and every year the robins would return in the fall to congregate and get ready to migrate south together. The tree was overripe, and the apples rotted on the stems, before falling to the ground, fermenting in the grass. A feast for our robin friends. There were about a dozen of them gorging on the sour fruit. Pecking and pacing, when we heard a distinct, but unusual chirp come from the tree.

“That was a different kind of call for a robin,” her mom remarked, absently. Her knowledge of birds was infamous in our family.

She just shrugged and looked back to the robins on the ground. Her eyes widened at the scene before her. All the birds had become completely still. Of the 12 or so, not one feather moved. If they had been pecking before the strange chirp, they in the same position, if they had been standing, they stood erect and motionless. She pointed it out to her mom right away. They both watched, transfixed, waiting for the eerie display to be over, but they did not move.

She looked up to the sky and saw a huge hawk circling above them. He soared with ease and was very interested in the crab apple tree and the birds within it. She looked back to the robins, still looking like museum pieces or a creepy diorama. Within a minute or so, the hawk flew off across the lake and the robins burst simultaneously into the tree. She remembered thinking how amazing it was that the robins had a special language, and that one little chirp was interpreted and understood by all. It was community. It was survival. And that footstep was like the robins’ peculiar chirp, warning of danger and peril.

Jolted back to reality, she hears the footsteps again. Closer this time. She is conflicted about what to do. She is assuming that the person outside is the one responsible for putting her here, but what if it is someone looking for her? It must be daytime by now and her mom must realize she is missing. She remains still, just for now, just until, she is sure.

A shadow blocks out the light from one side of the shed and she can imagine someone is standing there, leaning on the shed, and looking out into a farmyard, a junkyard, an ocean? She has no idea, and panic sets in making her breath laboured and her heart race.

The footsteps and shadow retreat, streaming thin bands of light back into the shed. When they get softer and distant, she allows herself to exhale.

Struggling to piece together the situation, she stands up and begins tracing her hands along the wall again. Some of the cracks are larger and she can just get a fingernail in, but the wood is solid, and she has broken nails and slivers in her fingers within minutes, making little to no progress.

The emotions rise without warning and before she can stop herself, she is screaming and kicking the walls.

“Help me!!” she wails, her voice rising to a wheezy whine. Panicking now that she may have waited too long to call for help.

The wood creaks and bends to her swift kicks but is not splitting or breaking like she imagines it should, and soon she is exhausted. Her forehead is sheen with sweat and her legs are starting to ache. She can already feel the warm, sticky blood pooling around her mangled toenails and into her shoe. She plunks down and curls up in a ball, pressing her cheek firmly against the cool floor. Closing her eyes, she falls into a restless sleep.

A dream.

It is lucid and swirling, but it is not a nightmare because her dad is there. He is standing on a hay bale, arms outstretched to the sky. The long grass tickles her calves as she runs towards him, laughing and excited. He beckons her and reaches out his hand to pull her up on the hay bale. She realizes, as she gets closer, that it seems large and looming. She is reaching for her dad’s hand, but every time they are close to touching, the hay bale gets taller, taking her dad up into the sky. She tries scrambling up the dry coarse straw, but it comes out in clumps in her hands, and she falls to the ground. She tries to climb over and over until she can’t see the top of the hay bale and she can no longer hear her father calling her name. It was a nightmare.

Waking up, disoriented again, but this time, only for a few seconds. It is getting much hotter in the shed and her nightclothes are dripping in sweat. She is getting hungry. Her stomach rolls and gurgles loudly, and her mouth is desert dry. She feels around her, the grit from the dirt, gets caught in her nails. The back of her hand nudges something. It is cold and wet; her hand grasps its cylindrical shape and a small drop of saliva forms in her mouth as she realizes that it is a bottle of water. Struggling in the dirt, she picks it up and unscrews the cap. The condensation cools her fingers as she empties the bottle down her throat. Swiping the area with her other hand, she can just make out the shape of a plate and immediately, a waft of salami fills her nostrils. Holding it up to a sliver of light, she can see it’s a sandwich. The bread is soft and blobs of sauce drip out of the corners of her mouth as she greedily starts eating.

She freezes. Chewed-up bread and meat sit like a lump in her throat.

How did this get here, she wonders, a sense of panic rising. She knows that the food was not there before, and the water was ice cold. The shed is small and barren, and she is sure she looked everywhere earlier and was especially aware of the space where she sat. Her eyes dart to where she assumes the door is and curses herself for falling asleep… she had missed a chance to see the person who was holding her here, or maybe even escape, but most importantly, find out why. Silver hooks gleaned on the wall. At some time, they held hand saws, pliers, and shears, keeping them safe from water and rust. Now they sat empty and useless. The half-eaten sandwich sat in dusty dirt, and she cried softly in the dark.

A memory.

She is 6 years old. It is a cold night, and the wind howls outside, typical for January on the prairies. Her father is late coming home from work and her mom is visibly panicked, Pacing the room nervously, and sneaking glances towards the driveway. She could almost feel her mom willing her dad to appear. She should have been in bed when the police car pulled up, or when her mother crumpled to the floor, overcome with grief as the policeman, talked in a whisper. She heard a car accident…didn’t make it and then nothing. A dull roar, and then the start of the now too- familiar clouds whirling like a dark storm in her head. 

The sound of keys in the door alerts her. The light wanned now, the rays retreating to bits of bright dust particles in the air. She stands up quickly, positioning herself behind the door. It opens slowly, a band of light filling the dank room, she can see her sandwich, fallen apart on the ground.

A man walks in and without hesitation, she lunges at him. His back is turned so her plan of surprise is successful as he topples to the ground. She turns towards the open door, but he regains his stance quickly and grabs her at the waist, pulling her to the floor. He sat down next to her, holding her arms above her head. He is huge and his face is worn and haggard. Deep, thick lines trace around his eyes, and he has a long red scar raggedly running from his mouth to his ear. For a moment, she is frozen, watching his eyes darken and blink rapidly. She starts to scream and kick at him, violently twisting her body to get out of his grip, but he is so much stronger than her and she is so weak and tired. She stops struggling and he lets go of her arms, gets up, and leaves. The keys clang as the clicking in the lock explodes in her head.

The sun is setting. She is sure because it is getting cold again and the shed is in complete darkness. She squints again, trying to envision the shapes of her hands and fingers. She tries to shake and wave them to eradicate the numbness from the cold and realizes she can’t. She is horrified to discover that her wrists have been bound. The rope digs violently into her wrists as she starts writhing and pulling. Pain radiates up her arms as she realizes that there is no escape. Exhausted, she relents.

A dream.

She is playing in her backyard, an oasis of green grass and towering trees. The yard backs into a forest. White and black spruce obscure the horizon. Balsam poplar, paper birch, black ash, and trembling aspen fill in the spaces between their coniferous cousins. She feels an energy, a pulse. She notices a hawk circling overhead, its piercing gaze fixed on her. Intrigued and slightly unnerved, she follows the bird, becoming increasingly aware of her surroundings as it guides her deeper into the forest. The hawk eventually lands on a branch, and she approaches it cautiously, sensing that it might be trying to communicate with her. As they share a moment of mutual curiosity, she feels a strange connection to the bird.

She hears footsteps outside and freezes. Someone is at the door and the handle jiggles loudly. She tries to get up, but her body is stiff and sore. Without the use of her hands, she can’t prop herself up enough to raise her body. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces for another fight.

A light fills the room, and she looks up at the door. Excitement and relief flood her as she realizes that it is her mom. She is smiling, but reserved and cautious. Her mom is simultaneously by her side and kissing her head.

As she receives this, the room becomes sharper in focus. She realizes that she is not in a shed at all. She is in a room, a hospital room. Her wrists are bound to the bed by soft cloth and IV drips slowly into her arm.

Her mom is speaking softly. Explaining to her that she has been very sick for days. The doctors weren’t sure if she was going to be able to fight the infection that had invaded my body. I had been acting aggressively to the nurse, so they had to restrain me.

“For your safety,” she explains.

But she was awake now, and everything was going to be ok. Tears streamed down her eyes as she held her mom’s hand tightly.

“I have a surprise for you!”, my mom jumped up and headed towards the door. Her eyes strain to focus as she sees a looming figure in the doorway, she freezes in fear. The figure walks in and she can see that is her dad. A wave of joy washes over her, but her eyes are heavy, and her body is tired, and just as she drifts off again, she thinks,

“Isn’t my dad dead? “

A dream?