Seeing my eight-year-old tied up, my eyes filled with tears.
“Sure, we can let her go—if you play with us for a while,” the gang leader, a greasy older man with yellow teeth, sneered.
“Play what? I’ll call the police! Kidnapping a child in broad daylight is a federal crime!”
The gang leader laughed. “I’ve already gone this far. You think I’m afraid of you calling the cops? Get on your knees.”
I was forced to kneel, praying that Daniel might see my texts and call the police. Otherwise, Lily and I could really be trafficked overseas like in some movie. The thought made my blood run cold.
But they didn’t stop. They beat me like a dog. A crowd of them punched and kicked me. My nose bled heavily, but I shielded Lily’s small body. I took the blows myself, until one of them hit me hard on the head with a blunt object.
When I woke up, I was horrified to find one of my legs gone.
I wasn’t dead. I’d been amputated.
I wanted to scream, but my throat was blocked. From the crying and screaming during the attack, my voice had broken.
Where was I? Was this overseas? Had I already been trafficked?
Where was my daughter—where was Lily?