Thanks much for the reviews! The story continues...

Please see all disclaimers in Ch 1.

The single pull on the revolver seems to have satisfied him. He says nothing, but continues studying me as if there is some unspoken quality I possess that prevented the bullet from firing. I too say nothing, but for a very different reason: I'm afraid I might say something to set this guy off.

The incident in the corn field earlier made it completely obvious that this man, our "Raphael," is little more than a mortal being suffering from an extreme case of dissociative identity disorder. There were at least two other 'personalities' there in that field, though who they are I have no idea.

And in the end, it doesn't matter. My hands still won't move. My head is pounding like a Muppet on a drum kit. The room still smells like a thousand fish sticks tossed into a fire, and the nausea is turning my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye I see "Raphael," or whoever he is at the moment, walk over towards a small wooden cot across from the door and lie on it. I can't tell if he's asleep or not.

The nausea and my aching head pull me closer towards sleep, though sleep is both the one thing I need and the last thing I want. If I fall asleep, or pass out, what's to stop this man from trying to bury his 'instrument' of 'God's will' inside my head again?

My head is spinning. The smell. The blinding light. The pounding ache in my temples. I think there's something running down the side of my face, but there's no way to tell what it is without touching it. I pray it's just water pouring from my pores.

"Raphael" doesn't move. My eyes are falling shut, and it's taking more and more strength I don't have to force them open long enough to try and figure out if he's asleep.

There's a thick sound of insects coming from outside. Crickets, maybe. Or cicadas. This is Georgia, so probably cicadas. If there's life outside these thin walls, it hasn't made itself known. At least, not yet.

My head is beginning to droop. Focus, Spencer, I chide myself. Worst-case scenario, other than you ending up like that couple near Atlanta, is that this guy drives you to the point where you don't want to live anymore. Stay awake. Keep thinking. Learn everything you can, if you want to get out of this in one whole functioning piece.

The rest of me is telling my mind to shut the hell up. My chin drops level with my chest, my hair is hanging over my eyes and blocking some of that god-awful light. My breathing starts to grow shallower and more cyclical, and all I can see is darkness.

--

When I wake up the blinding light is gone. In its stead is sunlight, washing in from the thin, dirty windows like a warm comforter.

The thick fog from last night has vanished. My eyes are wide, open, and clear for the first time in hours. I try to look around the small room as best I can from this position, and I hear nothing behind me.

I'm alone.

This simple thought—I'm alone—is enough to give me some hope. For whatever reason, "Raphael" isn't too concerned with leaving me by myself. I start to pick up my hands to brush a stray hair out of my face.

They won't move. I vaguely remember them not moving last night. I look down at my hands, and soon discover the reason why: two steel bracelets, both locked around my wrists.

I pull them towards me, trying to figure out why they won't move off my lap. It's then I see it—there, in the middle, around the chain that links them together, is a thick leather strap that's been stapled to itself. I'm not sure how long the strap is, but it's probably safe to say that the other end is somehow fastened to a crossbar under the chair or to a point in the floor.

However it's done, one thing stands out in my mind: I'm completely helpless. There's no way I can stop "Raphael," or whoever he decides he is at the moment, from shooting me point-blank with that damned revolver—the one with only one loaded shot in it. I can't defend myself, or push him away, or attack him should my life depend on it.

But there's the chair. I look down at my legs. They're not bound, and I still have my shoes. Maybe—just maybe—I can pull the chair out from underneath me. Maybe—just possibly—I can snap whatever's holding down the other end of the leather strap. I have to believe it's possible, because there doesn't seem to be any other options left. Breaking the strap is impossible—it's simply too tough and thick.

I gingerly try to pick myself up and stand on my feet. It doesn't take a second before I'm back on the chair, having fallen on my backside. I try again, hoping this time I can find that center of balance I need to be able to pull the chair out from underneath me.

It doesn't happen. I've forgotten the physics of it—the chair, being of the high-backed variety, would move the center of balance I need to a point that could be reached only if my legs were about six-and-a-half feet tall on their own. No matter how many jokes I hear from Morgan about being tall, even he would look at me funny if I stood almost thirteen feet tall.

Desperation is starting to claw at my insides. I try pulling on the strap as hard as I can, hoping I can break whatever's anchoring it. It doesn't work, for two reasons. Besides the fact that whatever's holding it down is both solid and incredibly strong, I can't gather enough strength from my position on the chair to do more than just pull on it. The only thing I could do is wear the strap until it broke, but even that would take about seven hundred years to happen. Bottom line: I'm not going anywhere. No wonder this guy can afford to leave me by myself without much worry.

I sit in my chair—it's mine because I've really got nothing else to call it—and just stare at the simple device that has rendered me both immobile and defenseless. The only thought on my mind at the moment is this: what am I going to do now?

Before I can puzzle an answer, however, a sharp noise startles me. The door's been thrown open, and the man is back—though right now, I'm pretty sure it's not "Raphael"...