“We won’t,” Ash said rapidly, listening eagerly. “Okay, okay,” Linda exclaimed, unable to defend against our mightiest weapon. “Please?” The last word left her mouth slowly, and her puppy-eyes did miracles. “Eh, sorry, I thought if you knew what a hogtie was, then also about gags.” Is that mine?” Linda said, pointing at the small glass of soda we had fetched for her. Mom had not been thrilled, had an argument with dad, and banned us from speaking about it at school. We had invented the position themselves, but our dad had called it a hogtie a while back. “After every game, the loser gets hogtied,” Ash continued.

“Yasmin lost again? She should know better by now,” Ash said, keeping his eyes locked at the TV. She walked downstairs and explained what the girls were doing upstairs. “Sure?” Linda said, and to our delight, showed little for fear. “Only my nose itches a little,” Yasmin smiled as joyful as possible. Two scarfs kept her legs together, another her wrists behind her, and a fourth linked her hands and ankles. “Wwwhhaaatt, are you okay?” her voice trembled after the yell. His facial expression turned in a grin when Linda turned away as he awaited the inevitable scream. They share a room,” Rowan answered, glaring up from his phone. All five of us were waiting, and finally, after 20 minutes, Linda broke the silence during a commercial break. The rest of us watched cartoons on the couch as Rowan played a game on his brand-new smartphone. Without trust, our babysitters never let us cut their freedom away. The girls ran up, and according to plan, tied each other up. Mind if we finish that first?” Yasmin said, jumping up before Linda could answer, though she conceded anyway. “Before dinner, Hazel and I played a game upstairs.

This preoccupied his babysitter, who once more asked what we wanted to do and missed the little circle he made with his thumb and index finger. He quickly said his name and kicked his legs back and forth, pretending to be bored. “Okay, cool, and you?” Linda asked Rowan, our oldest 11-year leader. “Yasmin, also 10, and before you ask, yes, we are twins.” Linda’s knees trembled, her pupils dartled around, and her hands were unable to locate their favorite strand of blonde hair. We smirked at each other, recognizing easy prey. I am 16 years old and live a couple of blocks away. “So boys and girls, what shall we do tonight? Or, eh, maybe I should introduce myself. She lounged on the fluffy pouf that made the inevitable squeak sounds. Linda waved us all toward her, and we sat down, cramped against each other on the gray sofa. We had often asked what they did but never got an honest reply, except grown-up things. Once a month, they planned a date night that was mostly an excuse to ditch us with a babysitter and enjoy each other. “Bye!” With mom, he walked through the door and locked it. “You’ll behave, won’t you?” Dad said, inviting the five of us to nod obediently. A long, slender teenage girl stood next to and smiled awkwardly. She’ll take care of you,” mom said, fetching her car keys from the drawer.

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