on a boat. And if so, to where? Out of the country? As unbelievable as it is, I suspect I’ve fallen into some kind of human-trafficking scheme. I remember a woman who spoke at our school a couple of years ago. She talked about how human trafficking was on the rise and how it wasn’t just foreigners and street kids anymore. But really, how can this be happening to me?
I hear what sounds like a metal door sliding open. “Step up,” Rod tells me. “High.”
I lift my foot but only hit my shin on hard metal. Rod cusses, then picks me up. I expect him to throw me into whatever this is, but instead he gently puts me down on what feels like a mattress and blankets. And then he slams the door shut.
The bag slips off my head, but it’s even blacker in here than in the garage. I open and close my eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness, but it’s useless. It’s pitch black. And now I collapse on the musty-smelling blankets and just cry. I’m sure I’m in the back of a truck, and it’s not long before I hear an engine start and eventually the truck is moving.
I try to gauge the time it takes to get out of the warehouse and how long it takes to get out of this sleazy neighborhood. And finally, when the truck stops at what I hope is a stoplight, maybe at an intersection where people could be outside and standing around, I get close enough to pound my feet on the door, and lying on my back, I kick it as loudly as I can and scream for help. Then the truck is moving again. Each time it comes to a stop I do this again. But eventually I can tell by the sound of the tires that we’re on the freeway.
And now all I can do is pray. I pray and pray and pray. God, please send the police to rescue me. And please make the truck break down or get a flat tire or run out of gas. When that happens I will start banging on the metal door and screaming all over again. And hopefully someone will hear the noise and get curious.
What would I do if I heard sounds like that coming from a truck like this? Would I even notice? And if I did, would I do anything? I pray that whoever hears me will react and that they will call the police.
Praying is comforting, but eventually I tire of repeating the same words over and over again. So now I sing praise songs from our church. And then I repeat scriptures I memorized in youth group.
God is my lifeline and my anchor. God will get me out of this. I believe that he will rescue me. Hopefully before this day ends. Hopefully before I’m handed over to this nasty Mr. T person. I don’t even want to imagine how horrible that would be. “God is my refuge and my strength,” I say aloud, “my stronghold in a time of trouble.”
Eventually my voice becomes hoarse from singing and praying and crying — and from thirst. It’s hot in here … I’m guessing more than ninety degrees. And I’m so exhausted and thirsty that I feel myself drifting into sleep. But even as I’m slipping away, I’m holding on to God. He is my deliverer. I believe it.
I wake up to the sound of metal grinding, and it takes me a moment to figure out where I am and what happened. Then I blink into the bright sunlight, hoping to see policemen who will let me out of here and take me home. Instead, I see a wicked smile and a glistening gold tooth.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” he tells me as he hands me a plastic cup.
I grab the cup and quickly drink the tepid water, and then he slams the door shut and it’s not long until the truck is moving again. But it’s not long before I feel like I’m getting dizzy, like everything is spinning, and I can tell something is wrong. Something was in that water I so eagerly gulped down.
I’ve been drugged. And now I feel myself slipping … tumbling … spiraling … down, down, down.
… [CHAPTER 7]………………
I wake up and, sitting up, I blink into the darkness, trying to remember where I am and how I got here. Oh yeah, the truck. And yet I don’t feel any movement and it
I hear what sounds like a metal door sliding open. “Step up,” Rod tells me. “High.”
I lift my foot but only hit my shin on hard metal. Rod cusses, then picks me up. I expect him to throw me into whatever this is, but instead he gently puts me down on what feels like a mattress and blankets. And then he slams the door shut.
The bag slips off my head, but it’s even blacker in here than in the garage. I open and close my eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness, but it’s useless. It’s pitch black. And now I collapse on the musty-smelling blankets and just cry. I’m sure I’m in the back of a truck, and it’s not long before I hear an engine start and eventually the truck is moving.
I try to gauge the time it takes to get out of the warehouse and how long it takes to get out of this sleazy neighborhood. And finally, when the truck stops at what I hope is a stoplight, maybe at an intersection where people could be outside and standing around, I get close enough to pound my feet on the door, and lying on my back, I kick it as loudly as I can and scream for help. Then the truck is moving again. Each time it comes to a stop I do this again. But eventually I can tell by the sound of the tires that we’re on the freeway.
And now all I can do is pray. I pray and pray and pray. God, please send the police to rescue me. And please make the truck break down or get a flat tire or run out of gas. When that happens I will start banging on the metal door and screaming all over again. And hopefully someone will hear the noise and get curious.
What would I do if I heard sounds like that coming from a truck like this? Would I even notice? And if I did, would I do anything? I pray that whoever hears me will react and that they will call the police.
Praying is comforting, but eventually I tire of repeating the same words over and over again. So now I sing praise songs from our church. And then I repeat scriptures I memorized in youth group.
God is my lifeline and my anchor. God will get me out of this. I believe that he will rescue me. Hopefully before this day ends. Hopefully before I’m handed over to this nasty Mr. T person. I don’t even want to imagine how horrible that would be. “God is my refuge and my strength,” I say aloud, “my stronghold in a time of trouble.”
Eventually my voice becomes hoarse from singing and praying and crying — and from thirst. It’s hot in here … I’m guessing more than ninety degrees. And I’m so exhausted and thirsty that I feel myself drifting into sleep. But even as I’m slipping away, I’m holding on to God. He is my deliverer. I believe it.
I wake up to the sound of metal grinding, and it takes me a moment to figure out where I am and what happened. Then I blink into the bright sunlight, hoping to see policemen who will let me out of here and take me home. Instead, I see a wicked smile and a glistening gold tooth.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” he tells me as he hands me a plastic cup.
I grab the cup and quickly drink the tepid water, and then he slams the door shut and it’s not long until the truck is moving again. But it’s not long before I feel like I’m getting dizzy, like everything is spinning, and I can tell something is wrong. Something was in that water I so eagerly gulped down.
I’ve been drugged. And now I feel myself slipping … tumbling … spiraling … down, down, down.
… [CHAPTER 7]………………
I wake up and, sitting up, I blink into the darkness, trying to remember where I am and how I got here. Oh yeah, the truck. And yet I don’t feel any movement and it
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