Breaking Curfew

Amanda and her friend cruised down a dark street, music thumping, laughing about the party. Amanda killed the tunes, whispered to kill the headlights – curfew panic kicking in. They pulled up, Amanda hopped out, waved her friend off before the car could wake the whole block. She cut around back. Locked. Front door had a note: “Mandy, you blew curfew again – you can spend the night outside.” Spare key? Gone. Phone dead. She started the long walk toward the main road, uneasy, then straight-up scared. Footsteps. She spun, fists up, barking threats into the dark. Silence. She turned – and a hand yanked her around. Her eyes went wide. Morning light. Amanda wakes in a barn, down to her underwear, on a pile of hay. Beside her sits another girl, streaked with mud, staring. Amanda tries to scream; the girl slaps a hand over her mouth. “Quiet, or he’ll hear.” Jaime. She’s been here days. Same creep, same threats, no follow-through – yet. They swap quick details: both 19, same neighborhood, grabbed at night. Footsteps outside. The guy stumbles in – clean-cut, jittery, eyes bouncing. He hauls Jaime to the middle, brags about what he’s done and what’s next, then bolts when something rustles outside. Jaime staggers back to Amanda, breathing hard.