Just 11 minutes after I returned from the hospital with a shattered femur, my mother-in-law kicked my crutches away. Ignoring my agonized screams, she and my husband dragged me into a pitch-black garage.

been.

Empty now.

Hidden quietly beneath a handwoven rug.

Sometimes, when winter arrives and the metal in my leg aches, I stand over that rug with my cane and remember. I remember the concrete beneath me. I remember the darkness. I remember the deadbolt locking into place. I remember the moment they left me there, convinced I would eventually break.

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