No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

glittering with crystals. It was strangely thrilling. She’d never
seen this much snow before in her entire life.
Now what?
“Now what, Darbs?”
* * *
She couldn’t breathe or see. Plastic stretched tight over her
face, suctioning against her front teeth. Knuckled hands
around her throat, twisting the bag, squeezing her airway shut.
Slippery, buried-alive panic.
“Shh, shh.”
She thrashed but Ashley was too strong. He had her arms
twisted backward in some kind of wrestling hold. Both of her
shoulder blades were wrenched ajar and her hands were
somewhere far behind her, pinned and useless. Like fighting
the embrace of a straitjacket. She kicked, her feet searching for
the restroom wall to use as leverage, but found only empty
space. Her backbone cracked.
“Don’t fight,” he whispered. “It’s all fine.”
Pressure building inside her chest. Her lungs burning,
swelling against her ribcage. She felt her own last breath — a
half-gasp that had been inside her throat when the bag came
down — trapped against her face, foggy and wet. Warm
copper spreading down her chin. Her nose was bleeding again.
She fought again, twisting, flailing. Her legs kicked out
into space. Her fingers clawed and scratched; she found the
loop of the lanyard in his jacket. Keys chattered. But there was
no gun, no weapons to grab. She was losing energy, too. This
thrash had been weaker than the first.
This is it, she realized. I’m going to die here.
Right here, in a dingy restroom off State Route Seven.
Next to the bleached toilets, the carved mirrors, the peeling
stall doors scrawled with graffiti. Right here, right now, with
that Lysol-taste still in her mouth.