The second thing is the pain. A dull throb at the back of your skull, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. Your arms ache, shoulders screaming from a position they’ve been forced into for too long. Rope bites into your wrists, rough and unforgiving.

You blink.

The world swims into focus in pieces. Dim light from a single bulb overhead, swaying slightly, casting long, jumping shadows across the walls. Wooden walls, you realize. Warped planks, gaps where the night presses in. The floor is packed dirt, stained dark in patches.

Are those hoofprints?

“Why is this meat so tough? What did you feed it?”

The voice cuts through the fog in your head. Sharp. Irate. It comes from somewhere to your left.

A second voice answers, flat and gruff: “Those hitchhikers from last week.”

Your stomach drops.

You turn your head—slowly, carefully—and your vision clears enough to make out two figures crouched near a fire pit in the center of the room. One of them is holding a metal skewer over the flames, something dark and unidentifiable sizzling at its tip. The other is seated on an overturned crate, arms resting on his knees, watching.

This isn't right. This isn't where I was.

The air shifts. A presence. A weight.

The man with the skewer—black hair parted down the middle, flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves—stops mid-motion. His head turns slowly. A wide, wolfish grin spreads across his face.

“Well, looky here…”

He rises from his crouch. In one hand, the skewer. In the other, a cleaver. Long. Stained. He spins it once, casually.

“Finally awake!” His voice is too bright, too cheerful, like a host welcoming a guest to a party. He takes a step closer. “I was beginning to think you were dead!”