table

on his arm, she managed to stay on her feet. The two men walked her into the apartment building and up three flights of stairs.
Kayla was certain she was going to die by the time they reached the top of the stairs; her ­insides felt like they were on fire, every movement ripping pain through her. The young man unlocked the door of an apartment and helped her walk through.
Inside, the living room was sparsely furnished with an old sofa and kitchen table, rock star posters on the walls, a television on a low table across the room. Someone had left a radio on, playing Spanish pop songs.
Down a short hallway was a bedroom. The men let her fall onto the large bed in the corner of the room. She just lay there for a few minutes amid the rumpled sheets and blankets, remembering what it felt like to breathe without pain. Several minutes later, she felt like