Hostage by Willo Davis Roberts

house.”
    â€œExcept I wrote a description of the truck, and they’ve probably found it by now,” Mrs. Banducci said.
    Cal gave her a nasty smile. “But we stole the truck, and there’s nothing to tie us to that, either. We’ll wipe all the fingerprints off the inside of it, for when somebody finds it in the river, and our prints aren’t on file anywhere, anyway. Come on, guys, get rolling. We’re wasting time.”
    Buddy still looked uncertain, but I wasn’t concerned about Buddy. I didn’t know how far he’d try to drive before we and the truck went into the river, but it wouldn’t be very long. I’ve heard that when people are facing death, their entire lives flash before their eyes. All I could think of was that there had to be some way out of this, and I felt frustrated because I couldn’t think what it could be. Breathing had become an effort; it was as if I were paralyzed, so I hadto concentrate on making the air go in and out, and I felt light-headed and kind of dizzy. I hoped I wasn’t going to throw up.
    Cal was already striding away toward the house. I hadn’t seen a car over there; maybe they’d hidden it back under the trees on the other side so nobody would notice it and wonder why it was there at an abandoned farm.
    Buddy, still frowning, reached down and grabbed hold of Mrs. Banducci’s thin arm, hauling her to her feet. “Come on, old woman. Back in the truck,” he said gruffly.
    Bo hesitated. “You want me to bring this one?” he asked about me.
    â€œYeah, sure.” Buddy was being rougher than he needed to be, since he was much bigger and stronger than his victim. Bo wasn’t very considerate, either. I felt as if he’d dislocated my shoulder by the time I was on my feet, and my balance was off, so I nearly fell again.
    â€œLook,” I managed, “can’t you untie our hands? If you’re going to lock us in, what difference will it make? We can’t do anything to get away, and my nose is running and I can’t wipe it, and the rope is too tight! Please—”
    Bo didn’teven bother to answer. It was a few seconds before I realized why his jaw had first slackened, then tightened in anger. “Buddy! Cal!” he yelled, slamming me against the side of the truck.
    â€œWhat?” Cal called back, turning around halfway to the house.
    â€œShe let the air out of another tire! We got another flat!”
    I’d almost forgotten that. I flinched from his angry grip, but I couldn’t get away from him. I’d been sitting long enough that my feet were half numb, to match my arms.
    There was more swearing as the three of them stood looking at the flat tire.
    â€œHow’m I supposed to drive this to the river now?” Buddy demanded, rage sending blood into his face. “Anybody sees us limping along on the rim is going to make us stop. Call the cops, who knows? It’s too far to go without a tire, and we used the only spare there was.”
    â€œBoy,” Bo said sourly, “this is the last time we’ll trust you to swipe a vehicle. What a lemon.”
    Buddy let loose of Mrs. Banducci so fast, shefell against the side of the truck. He took a step toward his cohort with a fisted left hand ready to punch. “It didn’t have flat tires when I stole it, stupid! She let the air out of it, see, the valve cap’s there on the ground! It couldn’t have come off by itself! I’ll bet one of them did the same thing with the first tire, back at the house.”
    He glared at me. For once Mrs. Banducci held her tongue, maybe because she was finally afraid that they might physically hurt us since they were so upset.
    My mouth was dry, but I managed to swallow so my throat didn’t quite close up.
    Cal had the biggest vocabulary of profanity I’d ever heard. He kicked at the offensive flat tire. When he finally pulled himself together, he spoke