Pray Like the Sun

Emily was careful as she regained her senses. She didn't move. She listened and smelled her surroundings.

Not a trace of dampness, or sound, or anything but an antiseptically clean place. Like a hospital, but far too silent.

She cracked her eyes open. There was some low lighting from a single bulb in the ceiling. She was on a bed. There was nothing else, even an air vent. Just a box with a trapdoor above her, and stagnant air.

Stagnant air.

She kept her breathing shallow and even. There had been kidnappings in the paper that were making her mother a little batty, about women being taken and killed by oxygen deprivation, literally suffocating on their own breath. She insisted Emily get some protection.

Obviously, her mother had been correct.

Having no idea how long she'd been under, she had to conserve her oxygen. There was only so much in this room. Any movement would cause her to use more then staying still. And under no circumstance could she have a panic attack. The more calm, quiet, and silent she was, the longer she would live until Hotch and the team found her.

She closed her eyes and did the only thing she could in the silence. She prayed, to God and Saint Jude, that the team hurried up and got her the hell out of this place. And that the pervert would open the door and give her a crack at him.