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on flesh—metal on bone.
    A moan tore from Spence’s throat that I could never have imagined him making. I thought I knew every sound, every utterance, every whisper he had ever voiced. In anger, in joy, in lust. But this sound was different. It oozed from his body like a spilling of air. Like a loss of hope.
    Like a weary acceptance of whatever the fates held in store.
    Once more, the metal bar rang out as it struck the floor.
    “You missed,” a voice sneered. It was the same guttural voice as before. Already I recognized it as coming from the fat guy with the leash.
    The next time the metal bar came down, the sound was one I knew I would never, ever forget. It sang out joyfully with the crush of bone, the hammering of flesh. There was a weary release of air, and then the iron bar struck again. And again. A wet sound. A cruel sound.
    But that horrible release of air! Was that Spence? Did that sound come from Spence?
    “No,” I wept, just as another kick struck my forehead. Then another. And darkness swept in.
     
     
    H OURS LATER —or days—I tried to open my eyes but couldn’t. My waking senses were assaulted with the stench of feces, the acrid smell of old urine, or was it new? I vaguely remembered where I was and shuddered.
    My cheek lay against the cold concrete floor. I tried to move, but my body would not respond. Was I paralyzed? Was I dead? My lips formed the word “Spence,” but no sound came out that I could hear.
    As the night air chilled my skin, I reached out my hand to slide it over the floor in the only direction I could. My fingers ached with the movement, a dull pain that stuttered through my body, and I knew they were broken. There, in the still darkness and the growing cold, I felt the softness of Spence’s hair brush the tips of my shattered fingers.
    And I felt something else—something sticky. It was a spill of blood, already cool to the touch. I don’t know how I knew it was blood. I just did. The silence around me was profound. I strained to hear Spence’s breathing but heard only the whispered footsteps of a tiny animal, a rat maybe, racing past my head. My body trembled with my own weak struggle for air, for life. I retched and a gout of vomit spilled from my lips. Its comforting liquid heat settled against my cheek.
    Spence. Spence.
    “No,” I pleaded inside my head to a God I didn’t believe in. “Not yet. Don’t take him from me yet.” But the darkness laughed, unheeding, claiming me yet again.
    And I knew no more.

Chapter Two
    Loss
     
     
    C OOL FINGERS stroked my forehead. I thought I had never felt a more comforting touch. Somewhere beyond the touch, off in the distance, past the sensation of gentle flesh pressed to mine, I heard a beeping sound. It was like the sound of a truck backing up, the beep that warns pedestrians out of the way. But softer. Not as harsh.
    I tried to twist my head into the soothing fingertips on my skin, into that tender, caring touch, but when I did, I realized the touch was no longer there. The fingertips were gone. Or maybe they had never been there at all. A thunderous ache settled over me.
    The beeping went on and on. Held captive in the darkness behind my eyelids, and held captive, too, by that horrendous ache raking through me, I tried to imagine what the beeping sound could be. I thought I knew. I was almost sure I did.
    But before I could grasp the answer, the ache swept even the question away, leaving nothing behind but pain. It thrummed through my body like a continuous surge of electricity, total and absolute, devouring my every thought.
    And it was then my friend the darkness claimed me again.
     
     
    T HE HUM of voices burrowed in, nudging me awake. I felt the dance of my own eyelashes fluttering against my cheek. A cool strip of material, like plastic tubing, lay snug around my neck. When I tried to swallow, the pain was intense, as if my throat were on fire. My hand ached from where it lay pressed to my side. My forearm was being