The below is an excerpt from River’s Rowan, a new book coming out late this year. It is Willow’s first introduction to the Radical Redress, the shed built by Jonathan for the purpose of torture and death.

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My eyes open, stare at the ceiling, slide towards the room of my door. I pull the earbud out and frown. I’m not certain what woke me, but I thought I heard something. The rustle of something, and the sight of the curtains moving almost makes me scream. My heart hitches high into my throat and I scramble to sit up. The window. I close my eyes, breathe out. The roof outside my room is flat; I like to climb out onto it, sunbathe to music. Sometimes I keep the window open at night for the breeze, although I closed it earlier when Dad sent me a text saying a storm’s rolling in. Or, at least, I meant to close it. The sound of thunder pulls me up. I walk to the window, and look out over our backyard. The motion lights are on, making me frown; wonder what tripped them. 

I push the window closed, lock it, glancing at the clock. I tossed and turned for hours before dozing tonight. Mom and I spent a long time tonight talking about colleges; she thinks we should plan college tours for Fall Break and, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally up for a road trip, but I’m not certain what I want to be, and so I don’t know that I even know what colleges to look at. An event planner would be fun- I really enjoy planning things and bringing to life the wildest imaginings. You were only eight years old, both my parents still love this story of me, when you announced there was a very important national holiday coming up: National Abstract Day. You made and put invitations in the mailbox – for the entire street! No one took it seriously; both Mom and Dad thought the neighbors would overlook a clearly unformed idea. Instead, RSVPs showed up in the mailbox; one of the neighbors stopped me while I went for an evening walk with my parents to tell me to count him in. Well, I remember Dad saying to me, What are you going to do on this National holiday? You better think of something cause you’ve got people coming. Mom always chimes in, That set you to work. Within a day or two, you had an entire eight hours planned. You taped butcher paper to the fence in the backyard and said it was the collage making station, there was a competition where the goal was to build something out of random items you found from the kitchen drawers and bathroom cabinets and under your bed. You made me buy lemons and sugar because you were going to make lemonade for everybody.

There are pictures from National Abstract Day and it was such a hit with the neighbors that they asked if we were going to do it again the next year. So, that would be a fun career, doing, like, interior design or something. But also, so would teaching. Art, of course, but also, history is really fun. I could teach History. Going to be a teacher and going to do interior design, though, might call for totally different colleges. And what if I take Chemistry and decide I want to be a scientist? So, I’m just not sold on starting the college tours until at least next year. And then there’s Dad. If we do go on college tours, he says he wants to come with us. Mom says she’s simply not doing a road trip with him, which made the two of them start to fight… again. They kept the passive arguments up until I smiled brightly and said, “Well, it’s not even an issue because I don’t want to do it, so you don’t have to ride with each other.” The two of them are like children, they really are.

Yawning, I walk downstairs, fill a glass with water from the fridge. I glance out the kitchen window; it’s really dark at two-thirty in the morning, especially now that the motion lights have turned off again. A piece of paper by the coffee pot grabs my eye: it looks like the drawing paper I use. It’s blank except, at the top, it says: Stardust for stardust. It’s not handwritten, it’s printed. Mom’s always loved thinking about the stars; she likely put it by the coffee maker so she would remember something. I stop at the bathroom and, by the time I lay down again, my eyes are heavy. I pull the blankets up to my shoulders, roll to my side, and grab Winnie-the-Pooh, wrapping my arms around him, closing my eyes. I barely notice the light touch of the wind across my face.

The pressure against my nose and mouth, pushing my head hard into the pillows pops my eyes open. The man standing above me wears a black ski mask, is very tall and muscular. I kick my legs and hear myself moaning–until he says in a calm, almost amused, tone: “If you make one more sound, I promise it will be your last and, if you need more of a guarantee than just a promise…” Moonlight shines through the open window, landing on the silver knife I didn’t even see until now. My eyes grow wild, my breathing stops. “I’m glad you understand. In just a moment, you’re going to get up and we’re going to go out the window, onto your roof, and down the ladder. If you try anything funny, I will kill you. If you somehow managed to get away first, which I doubt, I will come right back up the ladder, through your window, and I will slash your mother’s throat before you ever reach the neighbor’s house. And, even, even in your best case scenario, you did reach the neighbor’s and manage to wake them up at three-thirty in the morning–the police won’t get here for another five to eight minutes. I will be long gone and your mother will be long dead and you will be my next target. So… are we clear?”

I nod slowly, trying desperately to breathe. 

As if he notices my struggle, his palm eases against my mouth. 

“Get up.” 

I always said, when I watched the horror movies with my friends, that if anybody ever tried to kidnap me, or hurt me, I’d scream no matter what they threatened me with. But, he’s so, so calm. I believe him: he’ll kill me and, if he couldn’t, Mom. He prods me out the window with his knife. My heart races like a thousand miles an hour; I think of the birthday party with Terry Plankard singing for me and friends; Mom and Dad together. I’m going to die; no one kidnaps someone just to let them go, not really. “Where—“

“Shut up.” Unlike when we were inside my room, his voice is firm and urgent. We’re outside in the open; he doesn’t want voices heard. 

My bare feet touch grass a second before his does and, before I can even think of running, his arm grips mine. He doesn’t speak but walks quickly. When he goes to the back of the house instead of the front side, my heart sinks. The security camera Mom installed only captures the front and sides of the house, not the back. Butterflies swarm in my stomach, my ears are ringing with the noises around me: cicadas, rustles from the woods, the first drops of rain, the sound of our feet crunching the leaves. I can barely see the neighbor’s house now. If I screamed, would they hear me? Probably not, not this late, when they are sleeping soundly. He pushes me farther until we pass the neighbor’s and then turns to go in the front of one house. The amused tone is back as he says, “They don’t have cameras, don’t worry.” A pick-up truck sits on the side of the street, and he holds the door open for me.

“Please — please, if it’s money you need–“

He laughs. “Get in, Willow.” 

My heart stops beating, my breath freezes and shivers race along my spine. “How do you–“

“I’m not going to say it again.”

I get in, pulling my lip between my teeth to keep from crying. He closes the door and walks quickly to the other side. I don’t even think about jumping out and running; he’d catch me. Get in, Willow.  Willow. He knew my name. Who is he? I swallow past the fear, and the nausea rolling in my gut, look at him. I can’t see his face because of the ski mask, but I don’t recognize his voice, he doesn’t seem familiar. “What – what do you want?” I ask, trying again. “If you’ll just tell me–my Mom is–“

“The Senior Vice President at the bank? I know. Your daddy? I know he’s rolling in it, too. I do not want your money.”

I frown, licking my lips. He rolls his window down, sticks an arm out. He’s not worried at all. He’s so calm. I don’t understand how he is so calm. “Do I know you?”

“No.” He pauses. “But you’re going to, don’t worry.” 

“Are you — are you– I don’t want to die.” Tears blur my vision, my lip quivering. He doesn’t answer me and that makes me panic. Before I can think about it, my hand grabs for the door, and I try to open it. It’s locked and I fumble, trying to hit the unlock button. He swerves the truck to the side of the road, slams on the break so hard I am thrown forward, hitting my forehead on the side of the door, reaches behind the seat and pulls out zip ties. “No. No, no, no….” I start to scream. 

“Really?” he asks, sighing heavily, sliding the knife along my arm. I stop screaming, but can’t stop hyperventilating. He nods when I quiet, tells me to put my hands behind my back; moments later, the zip ties cut into my wrist. He leans back to the driver’s seat and says calmly, “Try anything else and I won’t threaten you, and I won’t warn you; I will use the knife. Clear?” 

I nod. “Sorry,” I whisper.

He pulls the truck back onto the road. It isn’t until he slows a few minutes later, and turns into a gated drive that I frown again, my limbs tightening. It’s really dark, and with the rain, I can’t see clearly, but I am almost sure this is the Callaway land. He punches a code into the gate and we’re bumping along the road to the right of the house. By the time he stops, I can’t see the main house. I can’t see anything except what looks like a large—

“Welcome to The Radical Redress.” 

My eyes squint, I can’t see it well in the dark. “Don’t worry, you’ll see the outside of it in the daylight soon enough. Let’s go.” He gets out. I can feel the knife pressed against my back as we walk. The shed/shack/whatever it is (what does redress even mean)- has one step up onto a small porch. The roof is slanted; I don’t see any windows.

The inside is total darkness, but he reaches over and turns on the light. “There we are.” The room we stand in is bare: the only thing in it is a table and a small chair. No windows, no shelves, nothing else. The floors are concrete. “Come on,” he takes my elbow and pulls. I plant my feet, shake my head, my eyes ricocheting off the walls, the floors, his mask-covered face. His fingers dig into my elbow and he pulls harder. We walk to the hallway and I see a dark hallway lined with doors; he stops walking at the second one. He unlocks it, pushes it open and follows me inside.

I turn in a circle, and start to scream, but he’s holding the knife up like he’s examining how sharp it is, so I swallow the scream. “Let me give you some fun facts about The Radical Redress. You are standing in a room that’s exactly one hundred eighty three square feet. It’s not so small; the average bedroom is only 132 sq feet, so you’ve got more than enough room to be comfortable. The bed does not have blankets or a pillow but it is a mattress and you do have something other than the floor to sleep on. The pot will do for your bathroom breaks; I’ll change it for you every so often. What’s really important for you to understand is that you are free to scream, kick, throw yourself against the wall if you want to. Money is of no concern to me–and I spared no expense in making this. I made it myself, you know. And only used the best materials and techniques. Ones like decoupled floors and hanging ceilings, fiberglass and vinyl. What this means for you is that — do you hear that? It’s so quiet. No sound is getting out of this room…. or into this room. Completely soundproofed. I couldn’t let you be loud before, but, in here, feel free. In fact, it might be fun.” 

My bones are so tight I think they’re going to snap. I hold my breath and barely move. I hear a smile in his voice when he says, “Your redressing will start soon.” It isn’t until he walks out and I hear the key turn, locking me in, that the wildness comes out. I hit the walls and stomp the floors; as hard as I can, over and over, I slam my fists into the wall and scream, as long as loud as I can, I scream until my voice breaks and my throat feels as though it’s bleeding raw. 

And then I cry.