She was there, in the backseat, all along. They had forgotten about her, having stolen the money—their little captive girl, buckled in and quiet as a mouse.

Every word they said, she wrote down in her notebook, spanning the pages. She made herself concentrate on the letters, the sounds, so her mind wouldn’t wander to the ever-present question of what was to happen to her. Whether she was to live or to die.

Every few hours, she would allow herself a look out the window. The landscape rolling by did not seem familiar; they had long since left her sleepy little town. But she did not let this bother her—instead she focused on every little blade of grass, every cow. Landmarks to help her, were she to escape.

The car pulled into a back alleyway. The three men were all out of the car, stretching legs, slamming doors, when she said in a small voice, “What about me?”

“Kill her.”

Her last thoughts were, I should have stayed quiet…

Two weeks later, they would find her. And her notebook said everything.