I hate this.

I truly, truly hate this.

My arms are burning, my back aches and I am desperately trying not to fall into this river with who knows what lurking in it.

The rest of the Reynolds clan is so far ahead I can’t even see them.

Reilly is gaining on me.

I have to beat my 10-year-old, soon-to-be nephew to avoid complete humiliation. While it’s already embarrassing I’m struggling to compete with a small child, I know I’ll never hear the end of it if I’m last in the annual Reynolds family kayak race.

It’s the first time they’ve “allowed” me to join the famous competition, despite my protests that the family tradition doesn’t need to expand.

The new rock on my finger (Shit, I should have taken it off) demands my participation.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of being the only one left.

I’m the last person remaining in this cursed place.

Now, I’m the only person I know.

How am I supposed to walk through the world knowing everyone I loved, every person I knew, is gone?

I know I’m lucky to have escaped the City of Death, but where do I go from here?

“Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position as we prepare for landing,” said the static-filled voice on the intercom.

I dig my nails into the armrest as I stare down at depressing landscape below. I cannot believe this is happening.

86 minutes ago I was in New York — my home. Now, thanks to modern air travel and a few unfortunate financial decisions, I’m about to be in my hometown.

I blink back the hot tears threatening to spill over. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. In New York, I can breathe. I’m still 20,000 feet above this place and I already feel the claustrophobia squeezing my chest and gripping my lungs.

I shouldn’t be here. I should be seeing a show at the Rockwood, or trying that new restaurant on my block, or people-watching in the park. Anything but abandoning the life I always envisioned for the life that was predetermined for me. The life I always fought.

The wheels slam on the tarmac and briefly jolt me from my thoughts, but the choppy landing can’t shake me from my self pity.

I haven’t yet felt the Ohio air, but I swear I can literally feel the presence of every person I left behind — all waiting to greet me with “I told you” disguised as “welcome back.”

“Welcome to Columbus,” says the captain.

The rickety boards creaked and the rope bridge swayed as I inched across the ravine, desperately trying not to look down.

The only way out was over. If I just made it across, I would make it to the main road and back to the beach. I could turn around and retrace my steps — but the terrain was too dangerous, filled with jagged, slippery rocks, and it was getting dark.

I was flanked by vines and trees so thick I couldn’t see any of the jungle’s creatures that kept breaking my concentration with their chatter.

I felt the sweat build on my upper lip and drip down my lower back. Partly from fear of the staggering depth below and partly the stifling humidity.

I took a deep breath, cautiously gripped the fraying rope at my sides and willed myself forward.

She stares up at the sky she hasn’t seen in two years.

It’s darker than she remembered.

Angry, muffled voices drift over the pounding in her head.

Something grips her ankle and she realizes she’s moving. The forest floor scrapes her back as she’s dragged across it.

They had warned her not to leave.

They told her it wasn’t safe beyond the walls.

Those walls she insisted made up a cell, not a shelter.

If only she had trusted them.