Chandler pulled into his parking space in his flat's garage, opened the door to check against the lines, and noting he was off center by a few centimeters, reversed and repeated until he was satisfied. After getting out of the car, he performed his routine check, walking around it to make sure there weren't any scratches or dirt. After the first check, he wanted to make sure that what he'd seen above the right rear tire was only a shadow from the car parked next to his, so went back. As much as he disliked his servitude to his compulsions, he reflected bitterly, he was slowly improving. The night the Abrahamians died, he had spent almost half an hour in the garage.

As he straightened up, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Instincts warned him of a threat but he was too late to defend himself against the object that came crashing against his head.

Chandler came to, dizzy and nauseated, tied to a chair. When he was capable of coherent thought, he categorized the nausea as a symptom of concussion and then began to gag. Somebody pushed his head forward and a gloved hand held a plastic bag under his mouth as he vomited. Relief and the habits of a lifetime made him say, "Thank you," though as his brain was less fogged, he remembered it was also an important part of negotiations. Treat them as though they're doing you a favor and they'll start to think of you as worthy of favors. After that, the person held a bottle of water to his mouth, first keeping the bag in position so he could rinse out the last of the vomit, and then letting him drink.

"What is it that you want?" Chandler asked, evenly and mildly, when he was done with the water. There was no answer, so Chandler tried to make as much sense out of the situation as possible. They might have kept him from possibly choking on his vomit solely to keep him alive, but letting him rinse his mouth and drink suggested that there was no animosity. The figure kept out of his sight, which he also took as a hopeful sign. If they intended to kill him, they wouldn't have bothered concealing themselves.

The location seemed to be an old basement. The walls were cement and he could see the bottom of a window. A shelving unit sagged next to it, a few dusty boxes and tools on the nearly empty shelves. The air was musty and a little damp. He could smell old cigarettes when his captor came near again. The arm and hands were almost certainly masculine, average build, though he couldn't rule out a large-boned woman. A heavy, loose-fitting dark jumper, either black or close to it, and work gloves, the kind you could find in any DIY.

He frowned in confusion as he saw a green laser pointer dot on the wall, then gasped as he felt his right eye forced open. "Please listen, you don't have to do this, there must be some other way," he started to say as calmly as he could, but heard his own voice rising in panic as he saw a blaze of light and felt a searing pain. To his horror, he heard himself babbling, "Please, no, please, don't, don't do this" as his left eye was forced open, he saw the same light and felt the same pain. He tried to, somehow, see something, opening his eyes as wide as he could, turning his head back and forth, but nothing worked. There was nothing but darkness and he felt himself sag in despair.

Something interrupted the sound of his own ragged, broken breathing, what sounded like footsteps either ascending or descending the stairs. They must have been ascending because soon he sensed that he was alone.