I slam my fist forward and manage to make contact with one of the guard’s faces. It doesn’t accomplish much. I’m pretty sure I’ve done more damage to my hand than I have done to his face.
“Restrain her,” someone orders.
I know it’s not Phoenix. He disappeared minutes after my son was taken. I remember screaming at his back. What I said to him, I don’t exactly remember.
Horrible things, probably. Unfair things. But right now, I don’t want to take any of them back.
Right now, what I want to do is throw more punches and swear and fight and do whatever I need to do to get my son returned to me.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t f*****g touch me!”
But two different sets of arms lash out in unison and pin my limbs in place. Cuffs snap onto my wrists and I can feel something twist around my ankles as
