There is little time left; not that she knows this. What does she know? The shrouding darkness of canvas, the grime that cakes her clothes and the red welts coming up on her pale skin. Her legs move, back and forth, scraping against the floor in a futile motion of resistance. Soon, she will be too tired to do so, but for now it is the only sound.

It has only been three weeks; not that she knows this. Her internal clock wakes her, but has long since lost track of days. A while back she’d given up calling, given up crying. Her last whimpering “Anyone…” had gone unheard, as had the earlier wrenching echoes. Her voice is harsh and dry. She is finding it harder to breath now.

When she is found, it is too late; not that she knows this. A small kernel of hope still resides in her breast. She tries to push it down; it makes fear rise in her throat and bile gnaw at her insides. It keeps her going longer than she should, but not long enough.

All over the world, millions share her fate; not that she knows this.