Caging

Lily’s sneakers crunched on the gravel path, the only sound besides the distant hum of cicadas. The Midwest sun beat down, slicking her bare shoulders with sweat as she adjusted her backpack. Eighteen, fresh out of high school, she’d seen the ad on a sketchy modeling site: Glamour shoot, rural location, big payout. Her mom’s shitty trailer and her stepdad’s leering eyes were reason enough to take the risk. The address led her to a rusted gate in the middle of nowhere, flanked by dense woods and a faded sign reading Private Property. A man in a black SUV had picked her up at the bus station, silent the whole drive, his knuckles scarred and white on the wheel. Now, standing before a sprawling farmstead, Lily felt a prickle of unease. Barns loomed in the distance, their red paint peeling, and a faint stench of musk and decay hung in the air.