1:47 am. Heaviness has grabbed my unrested brow and won�t let go. Moments ago the sound of an emergency alert, usually informing of severe weather, overpowered Jay Leno�s voice on the TV. Amber Alert. The heaviness traveled down my throat into my stomach. I listened to some unknown official, voice quavering but deliberate, describe an unknown girl and an unknown kidnapper. Where is she now? 14. 5�7. 135 pounds. Perhaps bound at the wrists and curled up in the passenger side of a car? Green. Camry. Last letter on the license plate: Z. What does a man think of while in the process of kidnapping a young girl? White. Shaved head. 170 pounds. Does she dare lift her green eyes enough to steal a glance at the driver�s seat? I am too young to die. I don�t want to die. No. No. Don�t touch me there. Stop. A laboratory rat running frantically in a labyrinth. How do I get out? GET ME OUT OF HERE.