I stepped toward Knox and grabbed his wrist. I tugged a little, trying to get him to move, but he wouldn’t budge. “He’s somewhere in the house. If we stay here, we will die. We have to get help,” I said and tugged some more. The result was the same. He didn’t budge. “Who’s in the house?” he asked. “Who the hell cares?! We need to wake her up,” a voice argued, and it was clear this time. Not that it mattered. “Please,” I begged. “Shayla is still upstairs. She’s dying. If we don’t get help right now, she won’t make it.” Knox’s expression changed from confusion to what looked like sadness.
