Page 8 of The Art of Exiley

1) My clothes will be wet.

2) I’ll be stuck in a box that smells like pee.

3) I will have peed my pants.

Pros of just doing it:

1) The glorious lack of pee in my bladder.

Yup, I’m doing it.

But before I relax the necessary muscles, I hear movement outside the box. There’s no way I’m facing my captors covered in pee.

My bladder is a steel fortress. It will not yield.

The walls of the box are creaking and shaking. Someone is finally opening this thing. My fear returns, and with it, the painful burn of the gloves. I’m still acutely aware of the pressure down below, but with the knowledge that I’m about to be out of here, and possibly on to some new kind of horror, letting it flow no longer feels like an option.

My bladder is a concrete dam. The floodgates will not fail.

There’s a lot of bumbling and fumbling. These guys don’t sound particularly well orchestrated.

Not guys plural, only one guy. Or so I see after my eyes recover from the light that streams in once he manages to pry open the crate. The face that greets me is the same one that’s been on my mind most of my intolerably long imprisonment. Disappointment mingles with my fear; I had really hoped he wasn’t involved.

Michael helps me up, and I immediately stumble and end up flat on my butt on the floor of what looks to be a conspicuously empty garage. I have no sense of balance with my arms still restrained and my legs cramped. Michael helps me back up again. There’s a large gash on his forehead with blood crusting over a blossoming bruise.

He gives me a tired smile.

I trusted that smile. It makes me so angry that I forget to be afraid. So angry that despite the risk of accidentally losing control of my bladder, I knee him squarely in the groin.

His eyes go wide as he folds over clutching himself. Lucky for him, my legs are still pretty noodley, and there wasn’t as much force behind my strike as I would have liked.

“What was that for?” he chokes out.

“You put me in a box!”

“Of course I didn’t!” He’s recovered somewhat, though he’s hopping around awkwardly. “I’m here to rescue you!” His hands remain protectively over his crotch. “I knew you might be in danger, so when I saw two guys loading a girl-size crate into a truck and then saw your phone on the bathroom floor, I went after them. I actually stole a kid’s bike to tail them. Stole a bike. From a child!” He finally drops his hands, then sighs. “I’ve been waiting for hours for a chance to sneak in without being seen. Now here I am”—he levels an accusing glare at my knee—“the lucky recipient of your gratitude.”

The gash on his forehead is seeping fresh blood, and it looks pretty bad.

“What happened to your face?” I ask.

He looks away and mumbles something about not having a lot of experience riding bicycles.

Ouch. “Well, what do you mean, you thought I was in danger?”

“Once I realized that you’re a Sire,” he responds.

“A what?”

“A Sire. It was obvious once I saw you revive the plant.”

My mostly-a-mystery-to-me abilities have a name, and this can’t-tell-if-he’s-safe-or-not stranger knows what it is. Which only strengthens my suspicions about who he must be.

“I’ll explain more once we get you out of here,” he says.

“No. Why does me being a, um, Sire mean I’m in danger?”

“There’s been a slew of Sire abductions recently. Which is why my school has been recruiting Sires—to bring them somewhere safer.”

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