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“Okay, so here’s how this is going to go. I am trying to find a couple friends of yours. I’m going to show you a video, and you tell me their names. Here’s the deal, I have a pretty good knack for being able to tell when someone is lying. If you lie to me, I will put a syringe in your arm.

“I know what you’re thinking: What’s in the syringe? I’m so glad you asked! In most of these are saline. However, one of them contains the paralytic Cascuronium. Normally they use this stuff for surgeries and such. It doesn’t block pain, but it will stop your muscles from contracting, which means you’ll be fully awake and unable to move. This way you don’t get to miss any of the fun parts. It also can cause a ton of anxiety, but based on the way you’re currently sweating, I’d say you’ve checked off that box all on your own. Shall we begin?”

He laughs and spits. “Fuck you, you stupid bitch.”

“See, that’s an example of not answering a question correctly.” I grab the rubber tubing and tie off his arm. Steve’s gaze dashes around, looking for either an exit or a weapon. He’s not going anywhere.

“Has anyone told you your veins look like shit?” I mutter.

He tries to jerk away, swearing in defiance, but it does no good.

“This will work so much better if you stop moving,” I say, holding his arm down, stabilizing him. I pluck one of the syringes off the small table, insert it into his vein, and press down on the plunger.

“We should know in ninety seconds or so if you received the Cascuronium. You’ll be pretty aware of it once it hits your diaphragm—don’t forget, you’ve got respiratory muscles too. Those are important. Without proper medical intervention, you’re going to experience what’s called air hunger—which is really going to kick that anxiety you’re currently experiencing into overdrive. Basically, you’ll feel like you’re suffocating, but no matter how much you wish for it, you just won’t die. It’s going to be awful.”

His eyes grow wide.

“I’m going to ask you again, shall we begin?”

He nods, fury in his glare. This dude is not a fan of me right now. In all fairness, the feeling is mutual.

“All right, let’s get started! What is your first and last name?”

“Steve Wesson,” he croaks.

“Great job, Steve Wesson!”

He spits at me but is too weak to give it any projection, causing the attempted insult to run down his chin instead. That must be embarrassing.

“Next question . . .” I open my phone and play the video for him. “Who are the two men with you here?” I ask.

“I don’t remember!”

“Dude. What did we just talk about?” I grab another syringe and into his arm it goes. “Two down, six to go. Want to try again?”

“I mean it, I don’t remember! I—I⁠—”

I pick up another syringe, hovering it over his forearm. “You know what they say, the truth will set you free.”

“Wait! Okay, one of them is Pete—Peter!”

“Peter . . . ? I need a last name, Steve-o.”

“Fuck!” His face turns red. “Let me think!”

Crossing my legs, I hum the Jeopardy! theme song while he panics; I can practically see his thoughts racing.

“I’m sorry—you’re out of time.” I stick it in his vein, or at least near it—my thumb hovering over the plunger.

“Bar–Bo–Bodney—Bodner! Peter Bodner!”

I push it down.

“But I told you his name!”

My nose scrunches up sheepishly. “I know, I know. That one was just for funsies. I couldn’t help it. It was already in your arm . . . and then you were screaming . . . the temptation was simply too great. I promise I’ll do better.” I chuckle. “Hey! You’ve lasted fifty percent, not too shabby!”

“Fuck you!” He fights his restraints, thrashing and using up all his energy.