Taken

I was taken when I was seven years old.

"Hey, little boy, yeah, you! You wanna piece of candy?"

I gripped the handlebars of my bike a little tighter, glancing back toward the house where Mom was, but didn't see her. "Momma says not to take anything from strangers."

"And your Momma's right." The man grinned, leaning out the window of his gray van, "which is why I wanna give ya some candy! You being all smart and all."

I preened a little, glad he knew just how awesome I was.

He looked nice, what was Mom so worried about anyway?

Still. . .

" C'mon little man," he said, and ducked into his car, reemerging with a piece of Snickers candy, my favorite, and tossed it across the sidewalk to me. "See?" He said as I bent to swipe it up, "I'm tellin' the truth!" This time, he had a whole handful, and I spoke around my mouthful, "Well, okay."

I rode my bike a little closer, and reached out to take the handful of candy.

" Whoops!" He laughed when a few fell on the ground, and I scrabbled for them.

It happened in seconds.

The van rolled forward two feet, I heard the click and roll of the door, and a hand grabbed the back of my jacket.

I screamed as my feet came off the ground, scrambling for my bike and my mom.

"Momma-" a hand fell over my mouth, sweaty and greasy, and me and my bike were scooped into the van.

A laugh, the slam of the door, and I started to cry.

I could hear Momma screaming.