You were on your back, arms bound tight to the bed frame with rough rope. The mattress beneath you was thin and smelled of mildew.

To your left, Clementine was in the same predicament, her jaw set tight, eyes scanning the room for anything useful. Her denim jacket was dirt-streaked, a fresh bruise blooming on her cheekbone.

Across the room, a scrawny kid with an explosion of dark curls sat cross-legged on the floor. AJ. He was watching a boy at an old upright piano, fingers dancing across yellowed keys, filling the silence with a jaunty, out-of-place tune.