Page 25 of Love Set Free

“Hmm.” I consider the situation and suggest, “Anyway you can push here, along the bottom? Or should we try the top of the board?” I know his space is limited and there’s only so much leeway he’ll have in being able to arrange his body to get his feet in place, so I figure I’ll give him the choice of which will be easierfor him. “Our best bet’s still going to be working one of the ends loose and then using it to pull the rest of the board free.”

The way Jackson crinkles his nose as he thinks only serves to emphasize the way it disproportionately dominates the other features of his face. And yet I still find the action, and his looks, ridiculously charming and adorable.

“Top, I think,” he replies after a moment. “Don’t think I’ll get much oomph out of my legs if I try to get my feet against the bottom of the board.” He nods to himself before reconfirming his choice. “It’ll be a stretch and my legs might not get my feet all the way up to the very top of the board, but I should be able to get close. Close enough to get the top popped free.”

“Okay, that’s what we’ll do then.” I make sure he’s looking at me again before I tap on the board I selected again. “This one,” I remind him. “The one to my left and to your right.”

While he gets himself in position, I grip the exposed edge of the board, near the top, ready to begin pulling as soon as Jackson gives the word.

“Okay. Now,” he grunts, accompanied by a deep breath.

The board groans and the metal nails squeak and squeal as they do their best to hold against the force they’re under. But surprisingly this board pops loose much quicker than the previous one did. Only a handful of moments pass before the upper edge of it is dangling free and sagging away from the rest of the box.

Sliding my hands down a few inches to just above the next set of nails securing it, I pull hard on the wooden board while telling Jackson, “Keep pushing on it. It’s coming. I think… Almost there.”

Working together, we loosen the board, section by section. Although, by the time we get to the very bottom of the board, it’s mostly me pulling on it, crouching down to get the best grip andleverage, as Jackson is unable to get much force behind his legs at that angle.

When it does finally come loose, I have only a split second to move far enough to the side to avoid getting hit by the board during its descent to the floor. I don’t have time to dodge out of the way as one of Jackson’s legs comes shooting out of the newly widened opening—it clips me solidly in the shoulder.

“Shit, shit, shit. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to—"

My brain doesn’t absorb the rest of Jackson’s unnecessary apology. I’m too busy focusing on the sight of his bare foot, sticking out below the grungy and frayed hem of his jeans. A foot that happens to be revoltingly filthy, parts of it nearly black with dirt and grime.

“Jackson, your foot! Your leg!” I excitedly exclaim. “Your leg is—"

“Almost all the way outta the box!”

“It is. Can you… Is the opening wide enough for you to squeeze out or do we need to remove another board?”

There’s a narrow amount of space around all sides of Jackson’s denim-covered thigh, his leg extended out through the gap we made, but it does fit. So, I’m hoping that means Jackson might be able to fit the rest of his body through, without us having to take the time and effort to pry loose a third board.

“Naw, I think I oughta be able to make it out,” he answers, much to my relief. “Can’t hurt to try, anyway.”

Jackson’s leg rotates as he turns onto his side, and then his other leg makes an appearance out through the narrow opening of the two detached boards. His body flops and heaves as he shimmies more of himself out, his hips and the minimally fleshy bulge of his ass barely compressing enough to squeeze out.

At some distant point in the future, I’d probably think back on this moment and laugh over how bizarre it was to watch as a wooden box gave birth to a fully grown, adult male. Butright now, my heart thunders in my throat as each second by agonizing second passes and all I can do is stand by and watch.

And hope.

There’s a flash of blue from the shirt Jackson’s wearing, but I only get to see it for a moment before it rises up his torso while he maneuvers more of his body out of the box. And then, I’m distracted by an expanse of chalky, pale skin stretched over jarringly skeletal rib bones. I can count each and every single one, like a macabre set of children’s counting sticks.

More and more of him emerges—a narrow, flat chest with only a few, spare sprinkles of light brown hair around his belly button, then the bunched-up folds of his shirt block my view of his chest. Sliding out sideways the way he is, the surprisingly incongruous width of Jackson’s shoulders doesn’t seem to hinder the progress he’s making. At least, that’s my thought, until his movement stops and he even inches back into the box a little.

“Do you need help? Did you get stuck?”

“Nawp,” he replies. “Just almost forgot to grab something I wanna be sure to take with me.”

Eyeing how much of him he’s been able to squeeze out so far—all but his shoulders, head, and arms—I desperately pray that whatever it is he feels he needs won’t require him to reverse all the way back in. I don’t have any idea of what sort of time frame we have to work with before the other kidnappers come back—assuming they’re actually not still somewhere else inside the apartment and would have to be dealt with. The desperate, instinctual side of me keeps insisting that it probably isn’t very long. I have the feeling that we’re only going to get one shot at this and we need to get it right, and quickly.

“Aha!” Jackson sounds victoriously happy as he exclaims, “Got ’em.”

Whether he’s feeling the same urgent time-crunch I am, or if grabbing whatever it is that he grabbed gave him some renewed energy, it’s only a few seconds after his proclamation that Jackson’s shoulders are edging back through the narrow opening. Then his neck. Then his head—twisting and twitching, with a grimace on his face as he carefully, but determinedly, presses his skull between the wooden boards we left in place.

Last but not least, he pulls his arms free of the box. The entirety of him now escaped from his wooden confinement, Jackson lies huddled on the cracked and crumbling tile floor, cradling a pair of tattered shoes against his chest.

I would love to give him this moment, love to let him bask in the relief and joy of finally being outside the four walls of the box that has been his home and prison for nearly a month.

But as much as I want to do that for him, we just can’t take the risk with the ticking clock.

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