An excerpt of the writing from Out of the Fire:

Rabbit in a Snare

When Jody came to, there was a gunny sack over her head. Beneath her, a spring-ridden mattress poked into her hip. It smelled of mold and vomit. Clamps dug into her ankles and no amount of straining freed her arms. The sack confined her and her throat spasmed with panic. She screamed as loudly as she could. But no one came.

She had a vague memory of a van door sliding on its hinges, of flannel-shirted arms reaching for her as she was lifted off her feet. Of the squeal of tires and a man's voice crowing: "Got 'er!" Before she could holler, a reeking cloth was pressed over her mouth. She was trussed like a calf in a rodeo, arms and legs hobbled to one another. Loud rap music blasted out: "Push it to the missus. Push it. Push it. Bitches need to be told who the boss, who the boss is. Aint gonna be nobody's boy not mama's not the man's..." before the hate-filled words faded into induced sleep.

Now she worked the leg irons back and forth to force her way out of her shoes, thrashed and twisted until she felt blood coursing through her socks. She had to be careful. If she tore her heel, how would she run? If only she could face down whoever had done this. But that was a foolish notion; there were at least four of them to one of her. Still, maybe not all of them really wanted to hurt her.

The male who'd said "Got 'er!" had sounded familiar. But before she could place the voice, someone had rasped: "No talk." Either the man had laryngitis or was disguising his identity. But would people she knew do this to her?

She tried to reconstruct other details. The smell of Old Spice shaving lotion, a scent she hated. A heavy leg on her neck, making her gag on the dust in the van carpet.

Now pain shot through her lower back, her elbows and knees, spiralled around her like black stars. She had to straighten her spine or she was going to pass out. Soon, bent over like this, she wouldn't even be able to stand. Still no one came.

Her grandfather would say Brace up, Jody. Use your head, girl. The words calmed her enough to butt at the burlap, to twist her shoulders until she could see light around the bottom of the gunny sack. She loosened the bag enough so that she could grip it in her teeth. Like a gnawing ferret, she ripped the sack enough to see where she was, to breathe free of chaff and dust.

A freight elevator hung amidst a tether of cables. Light from the shaft provided whatever illumination was in the room. Spools of electrical cable lay strewn the length of the cement floor. She must be in a warehouse, but it didn't look like an active business with phones or computers or filing cabinets. There was no furniture except for a whitewashed wooden stool with three legs. The mattress upon which she lay was bare. Her legs were shackled to a post running from floor to ceiling.

At the corner of her vision there was a toilet, a paint-splattered sink. The toilet reminded her that she needed to pee, badly. She tried thinking about anything but her bladder. Counted the number of holes in the gyprocked wall. Sure that she would wet her pants, she whimpered with frustration.

Then she exploded into rage. "God damn whoever you are! Come here and I'll piss on you. Come here, you perverts!" Not the kind of language the granddaughter of a minister should use. But then her grandfather had never been kidnapped, either.

Back and forth she rocked, trying to defy her biological imperative. But of course she couldn't. Hot urine ran down the side of her hip unto the mattress. She lay within the circle of her own waste. Humiliation was a smell sharp as urine.