"This is how sorry I am," he whispered.
He pressed down the bolt cutters' handle, heaving all of his weight into it.
There was a crisp pop.
Suddenly, his finger lay separated from his hand on the concrete floor.
He let out a breath of immense, startled pain. There was barely any blood at first. Just a few drops. Then, much more. He stood, tore off his t-shirt, and wrapped his hand tightly in the fabric, tying it with his teeth.
I tried to back away frantically, but the wall behind me stopped me short. His severed finger lay only inches from my knee.
He took another drag from his cigarette with his free hand, dropped it onto the ground, and stubbed it out with his boot.
Then, shaking so badly from the pain that he looked like he was shivering, he picked up his finger.
He grabbed the cigarette box. He dumped the remaining cigarettes onto the workbench.
Then he dropped his finger into the box and closed the lid.
"This is how sorry I am," he stammered, breathing through his teeth. Sweat poured down his face. He held the box out for me to take it. "I want you to have this. It's yours. It's for you."
The degree of compliance that the ketamine had induced must have been extreme, because no matter how badly I wanted to swat the box away and run, somehow, I did exactly what he suggested and took the box. I held it tightly in my hand, dazed. I glanced at Shanna. The effect of the drugs was strong, but the one thing I knew was that we had to get out of there as fast as possible, now.
I tried to stand.
"Where do you think you're going?" He grabbed the waist of my pants like a rope and jerked me toward him so fiercely that he popped out the top button of my jeans.
"I just gave you a part of me," he whispered very seriously. "You're not going anywhere. You owe me."
