False Bind

October 13, 1950

I awoke with a start.

The room I found myself in was not the same as when my head had hit the pillow the night before. The air was thick and cloudy. It smelled of ash. It smelled of cedar. Candles lay strewn across the hardwood—wax dripping into the gaps between the boards.

A scrap of paper had been tucked into my closed fist. I smoothed the creases, and began to read:

Your name is Margaret Patricia Cowell.

You have been weighed in the balance, and have been found wanting.

Prepare yourself for the eternal flame that shall never die out.

P.S. Your husband says hi.

I turned to my left and my right. All the windows and doors had been boarded up. As if they would have been much help anyway. I knew I needed to do something. And I needed to do it fast.

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