"I HAVE NO ARMS!"

 

Ryan Jensen kicked the gravel as he walked toward his red pickup, keys jingling in his hand. The evening air was still warm for October, and he'd rolled his sleeves up to his shoulders after helping his dad move hay bales all afternoon. Eighteen years old for exactly three weeks now, and still his old man sent him on errands like he was twelve.

"Just drive down to Amarillo and pick up those tractor parts," his father had said. "Should take you four hours there and back. Don't dawdle."

One hundred and twenty miles to Texas for some damn hydraulic seals. Ryan pulled open the driver's door and tossed his water bottle onto the passenger seat. At least it meant a break from the farm, and the truck was his pride—saved two years of wages to buy it from his uncle, and it ran like a dream.

The engine turned over smooth as silk. Ryan backed out of the farmyard, windows down, classic rock spilling from the radio. Highway 287 stretched ahead, arrow-straight toward the Texas panhandle. He was making good time, thinking about whether he'd have the guts to ask Sarah Mitchell to homecoming when he got back, when the headlights appeared in his rearview mirror.

Close. Too close.

Fifty miles from the Texas border, the impact came without warning—a brutal slam that sent his truck careening off the highway into the roadside ditch. Ryan's head snapped forward, then back. Stars exploded across his vision.

By the time he shook the fog from his brain, rough hands were dragging him from the cab.

"What the—" Ryan started to yell, but something hard cracked across the back of his skull. The Texas sky tilted sideways, and everything went black. up to his shoulder to his wrists, and drifing in an out of consciusness... "Somebody help me! 

Chapter 2

Ryan's first conscious thought was that his mouth tasted like copper and dirt. His second was that he couldn't move his hands.

The world bounced and swayed around him. He was lying on his side in what felt like the bed of a pickup truck, tarp pulled over him. Every pothole sent pain shooting through his skull where they'd hit him. His wrists were already bound behind his back with what felt like climbing rope—thick and rough against his skin.

"Please," he tried to say, but his voice came out as a croak. The engine noise swallowed the sound anyway.

How long had they been driving? The sun had been setting when he left the farm, but now everything was black under the tarp. His shoulders already ached from the awkward position, arms twisted behind him. He tested the rope—no give at all.

The truck hit another bump, and Ryan's bound hands slammed against the truck bed. He bit back a yelp. Whoever had taken him was still up front, probably watching the road. If he made noise, they might stop and make things worse.

But how much worse could it get?

The truck began to slow, then turned off the smooth highway onto what sounded like gravel. Ryan's heart hammered against his ribs. They were stopping. Whatever was going to happen to him was about to begin.

The engine cut off. Doors slammed.

Footsteps crunched toward the tailgate.

Chapter 3

The tarp ripped away, and cool night air hit Ryan's face. Stars wheeled overhead—more than he'd ever seen from the farm. They were in the middle of nowhere.

Two men grabbed him under his arms and hauled him from the truck bed. Ryan's legs buckled—pins and needles shot through his feet. How long had he been lying on his side?

"Please, I don't know what you want, but—"

"Shut up." The voice was flat, emotionless.

They dragged him toward a dark building. An old barn, maybe, or a warehouse. The door screeched open on rusted hinges. Inside smelled like motor oil and decay.

They dropped him face-first onto concrete. Ryan's cheek scraped against the gritty floor.

"Roll over."

Ryan struggled to his knees, then his side. One of the men—he couldn't see their faces in the darkness—grabbed more rope from somewhere. Thick, yellow climbing rope.

"What are you doing? Please—"

Rough hands forced his arms up behind his back, bending his elbows. The new rope wound around his forearms, pulling them together. Tighter. His elbows touched. Then his forearms pressed against each other from wrist to elbow.

"Too tight," Ryan gasped. His shoulders screamed in protest as they forced his arms into an impossible position. "Please, that's too—"

The rope around his ankles came next. Then the connecting rope between his ankles and wrists, pulled so tight his heels nearly touched his bound hands. One inch. Maybe less.

He couldn't straighten his legs. Couldn't lower his arms. Couldn't do anything but lie on his side in a tight ball of agony.

"Wait," he whispered. But footsteps were already walking away. The door slammed shut.

Darkness. Silence. And the first whisper of numbness creeping into his fingertips.

Chapter 4

Ryan had no idea how long he'd been unconscious when the pain woke him.

His shoulders felt like they were on fire. The rope around his forearms had cut off circulation so completely that his hands were just... gone. He couldn't feel his fingers at all. When he tried to wiggle them, nothing happened. Or maybe they were moving and he just couldn't tell.

The concrete floor was ice-cold against his chest and face. He was lying flat on his stomach, but any movement sent lightning bolts of agony through his shoulders. The position they'd forced him into—elbows touching, forearms bound together, his biceps tied so close they pressed against each other, all pulled up behind his back and connected to his ankles—was slowly tearing his shoulder joints apart. His heels were so close to his wrists he could almost touch them, keeping him stretched in this impossible arch.

"Help," he called out, his voice echoing in the empty space. "Somebody help me!"

No answer. Just his own voice bouncing back at him.

He could feel his phone in his back pocket, pressed against his body. So close. If he could just reach it somehow... but his hands were completely numb now, and the connecting rope kept his ankles pulled tight to his wrists.

Ryan tried to rock sideways anyway. The movement sent such a spike of pain through his shoulders that he screamed. The sound surprised him—raw and desperate.

The panic hit him like a freight train.

"I HAVE NO ARMS!" he screamed into the darkness. "WHERE ARE MY ARMS? I CAN'T FEEL MY ARMS!"

His voice cracked, breaking into sobs. He knew they had to be there—he could feel the fire in his shoulders—but below his elbows, nothing. Just nothing.

"This isn't real," he whispered to himself between gasps. "This isn't happening."

But the numbness spreading up his arms told him otherwise.

Chapter 5

Time became meaningless in the darkness. Ryan drifted in and out of consciousness, each awakening worse than the last. The numbness had crept up past his elbows now, swallowing his biceps. His entire arms felt like they belonged to someone else.

He'd stopped screaming hours ago—or was it minutes? His throat was raw, his voice nothing but a whisper. The concrete had warmed slightly under his body, but that only made him aware of how much he was sweating. The rolled-up sleeves that had felt so practical on the farm now left his skin completely exposed to the rough rope. Every small movement rubbed the coarse fibers against his bare arms.

"Dad," he whispered to the empty building. "Dad, where are you?"

His father would be wondering where he was by now. The tractor parts errand should have taken four hours, five at most. How long had it been? Ryan tried to count backwards from when he'd left the farm, but his thoughts kept scattering.

The phone in his back pocket felt heavier somehow, like it was mocking him. He could picture his dad calling it, letting it ring and ring. Maybe his brothers too. Jake and Tommy were probably pissed that he hadn't come home to help with the evening chores.

Ryan tried once more to shift toward the phone, but the shoulder pain hit him like a sledgehammer. This time he didn't even have the energy to scream. A whimper escaped his lips, and then the darkness pulled him under again.

He never heard his phone start buzzing with the first frantic call from home.

Chapter 6

"He should've been back by now."

Dale Jensen stood in the farmhouse kitchen, staring at the empty driveway through the window. The porch light cast a yellow circle on the gravel, but there was no sign of Ryan's red pickup.

"Maybe he stopped for dinner in town," his wife Linda said, but her voice carried the same worry that had been building in Dale's chest for the past two hours.

"Not Ryan. He'd want to get home before dark." Dale pulled out his phone and dialed his youngest son's number. It rang six times before going to voicemail. "Ryan, call me back. Your mother's worried."

Jake and Tommy came in from the evening chores, boots heavy on the kitchen floor.

"Ryan back yet?" Jake asked, washing his hands at the sink.

"No." Dale tried the number again. Still voicemail.

By ten o'clock, Dale was pacing. By eleven, he'd called the sheriff's office.

"Mr. Jensen, it's only been seven hours," Deputy Martinez said when he arrived at the farm. "Most missing person cases—"

"This isn't most cases," Dale interrupted. "Ryan doesn't just disappear. That boy's never been late for anything in his life."

The deputy took down the details: red 2019 Ford F-150, OK plates, heading to Amarillo for tractor parts. Last seen leaving the farm at 5:30 PM.

"We'll put out a BOLO alert," Martinez promised. "Check the route, see if anyone saw him."

But Dale was already grabbing his keys. His other sons were right behind him.

"Dad, where are we going?" Tommy asked.

"To find our boy."

Chapter 7

Ryan woke to the sound of his own moaning.

The numbness had spread past his shoulders now. He could feel nothing below his neck except for the constant fire where his shoulder joints were slowly separating. Even that pain felt distant, like it was happening to someone else.

His face was stuck to the concrete with dried sweat and saliva. When he tried to lift his head, the movement sent such agony through his shoulders that black spots danced across his vision.

The phone was still buzzing in his back pocket. On and off, on and off. Someone was trying to reach him desperately, but he might as well have been on another planet.

"Help me," he croaked, but his voice was barely a whisper now. His throat felt like sandpaper.

He tried to rock toward the sound of his phone, forgetting for a moment why that was impossible. The rope connecting his ankles to his wrists caught him short, and the resulting spike of shoulder pain made him scream—a broken, animal sound that echoed off the concrete walls.

In the silence that followed, Ryan realized something that terrified him more than the pain: he couldn't tell if his arms were still bleeding from where the rope had cut into his bare skin. He couldn't feel anything to know.

"I'm going to die here," he whispered to the darkness.

The phone buzzed again. Whoever was calling—his dad, probably—slowly losing pieces of himself with each passing hour.

Ryan closed his eyes and let unconsciousness take him again

.Chapter 8

Dawn was breaking over Highway 287 when the Oklahoma State Trooper spotted the red pickup in the ditch.

"Got it," Trooper Williams radioed back to dispatch. "Red F-150, OK plates, matches the BOLO. Vehicle's empty, driver's door open."

Dale Jensen's heart sank when he got the call. He'd been driving the route all night with Jake and Tommy, stopping at every gas station and diner between home and the Texas border. Now he stood beside his son's truck, watching the crime scene techs work.

"No sign of struggle inside the cab," Detective Sarah Cross told him. "But we found these in the passenger side floorboard."

She held up an evidence bag containing cut pieces of yellow rope and duct tape.

"Jesus," Dale whispered.

"Mr. Jensen, I need you to look at this." Detective Cross showed him another bag. "Is this your son's phone?"

Dale's hands shook as he examined the device through the plastic. "No. Ryan's got a newer model. Blue case with a crack across the back."

"So he still has his phone." The detective's eyes sharpened. "We're going to ping it right now. If it's still on, we can track it."

Tommy grabbed his father's arm. "Dad, that means—"

"I know what it means, son." Dale stared at the evidence bags. Someone had prepared for this. Someone had taken his boy on purpose.

"How long to get the phone location?" Dale asked.

"Could be minutes, could be hours. Depends on tower coverage." Detective Cross was already on her radio. "But we're going to find him, Mr. Jensen. I promise you that."

Chapter 9

When Ryan surfaced from the blackness again, he wasn't sure if hours or days had passed.

The numbness had consumed everything now. He existed only as a floating consciousness attached to screaming shoulder joints. His arms—if they were still there—had become phantom limbs. He could remember what they felt like, but the memory seemed as distant as childhood.

The concrete beneath his face was slick with sweat and drool. He'd wet himself at some point, though he couldn't remember when. The shame of it barely registered through the haze of agony.

His phone buzzed against his back. The sound had become a torture all its own—hope and despair wrapped together. Each vibration reminded him that help existed in a world he could no longer reach.

"Please," he whispered to no one. The word came out as barely a breath.

Ryan tried to remember his father's face, his brothers laughing at the dinner table, Sarah Mitchell's smile in the school hallway. But the memories felt thin, like they belonged to someone else. The rope and concrete and endless darkness were becoming his entire reality.

His rolled-up sleeves had been a blessing on the warm farm that afternoon—now they were a curse. The rough rope had abraded his bare arms for so long that he imagined blood pooling beneath him, though he couldn't feel it to know for sure.

Time stretched and contracted. Minutes felt like hours. Hours collapsed into seconds.

The phone buzzed again, and Ryan's cracked lips moved in what might have been a prayer before consciousness slipped away once more.

Chapter 10

Thirty-six hours after Ryan Jensen disappeared, his phone finally gave them what they needed.

"Got it!" Detective Cross shouted across the command center they'd set up at the Jensen farm. "Phone ping came through. He's near the Texas border, about fifteen miles south of Stratford."

Dale Jensen looked up from the map he'd been staring at for hours. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands shaking from too much coffee and too little sleep. "How close can you get us?"

"GPS puts it at an abandoned ranch. Satellite shows old buildings, looks like it's been empty for years." Cross was already moving toward her vehicle. "We're mobilizing search and rescue now."

But twenty-four more hours crawled by. The ranch was huge—hundreds of acres with multiple buildings scattered across the property. The phone signal was intermittent, making it impossible to pinpoint exactly where Ryan was being held.

"We've checked the main house, the big barn, three outbuildings," the search coordinator reported as another day died. "Still looking."

Dale stood in the ranch yard, watching flashlight beams sweep through the darkness. Sixty hours. His boy had been gone for sixty hours.

"There!" A shout came from near a concrete structure half-hidden by overgrown mesquite. "I found him!"

Dale ran harder than he had since high school, his boots slipping on loose gravel. Please, God, let him be alive.

The small building reeked of motor oil and decay. In the beam of the flashlight, Dale saw his youngest son.

Ryan lay face-down on the concrete, unmoving. His arms were twisted behind him in a position that made Dale's stomach lurch. Yellow rope bound him so tightly his body formed an impossible arch. A pool of sweat and other fluids surrounded him.

"Jesus Christ," someone whispered.

"Ryan!" Dale dropped to his knees beside his son. "Ryan, can you hear me?"

Chapter 11

Ryan stirred at the sound of his father's voice, but consciousness brought only agony. Through the haze, he heard footsteps, voices, his name being called. They'd found him. After sixty hours, they'd finally found him.

"Fuck it," he whispered, and with the last of his strength, Ryan threw himself sideways.

The rope held. His shoulders didn't.

The sickening pop of joints separating echoed through the building. Ryan's scream tore from his throat as his shoulders dislocated completely. The movement ripped skin from his arms where the rough rope had abraded him for three days.

Then silence. Ryan went limp, unconscious in a spreading pool of sweat, blood, and desperation.

"Get the medics in here now!" Dale shouted, his voice breaking. "NOW!"

EMT Sarah Rodriguez was the first through the door, medical bag in hand. She took one look at Ryan's position and grabbed her radio. "I need bolt cutters and a trauma team. We've got severe restraint injuries, possible dislocated shoulders, and the victim is unconscious."

"Don't move him yet," paramedic Jim Walsh warned as Dale reached for his son. "Those ropes are the only thing keeping his shoulders in any kind of position. If we cut them wrong..."

The trauma team worked frantically around Ryan's unconscious form. They started an IV in his leg—his arms were too damaged and swollen. Oxygen mask over his face. Careful assessment of his breathing and pulse.

"Pulse is weak but steady. Breathing's shallow. He's in shock," Rodriguez reported. "How long has he been like this?"

"Sixty hours," Detective Cross said grimly.

"Jesus." The paramedic looked at the rope work. "We need to cut these restraints simultaneously. If his shoulders snap back while he's unconscious..."

Dale watched helplessly as the medical team positioned themselves around his son. His boy—eighteen years old and two hundred pounds of farm-strong muscle—looked tiny and broken on the concrete floor.

"On three," Rodriguez said, bolt cutters ready. "One... two... three."

Chapter 12

Two days later, Ryan opened his eyes to white ceiling tiles and the steady beep of monitors.

Three faces hovered above him—his father's weathered features, Jake's worried brown eyes, and Tommy's freckled face streaked with tears. All three looked like they'd aged years in the past week.

"Thank God," Tommy whispered, gripping the bed rail. "Thank God you're awake."

Jake leaned closer, his voice shaking. "Hey, little brother. We've been waiting for you."

Ryan tried to speak, but his throat felt like gravel. A nurse appeared with ice chips, helping him wet his lips. When he finally found his voice, the words came out broken and afraid.

"I have no arms," he whispered to his father and brothers.

The three men exchanged anguished looks. Jake was the first to move, carefully taking Ryan's bandaged hand in both of his. "Feel that, Ryan? That's your hand. That's your arm. It's right here."

"We drove every road between here and Texas looking for you," Tommy said, tears streaming freely now. "Dad wouldn't stop. None of us would stop."

Dale's voice cracked as he gently touched Ryan's shoulder. "Your arms are there, son. The doctors say feeling will come back. It's going to take time, but they're there."

"I couldn't feel them," Ryan whispered, his eyes darting between his brothers' faces. "For so long, I couldn't feel them."

"But you fought," Jake said fiercely. "You survived. You came back to us."

Tommy moved to the other side of the bed, placing his hand over Ryan's heart. "Feel this beating? You're alive, brother. You're here with us."

They surrounded him then—Dale at his head, Jake holding his right hand, Tommy at his left side. Their presence filled the room with warmth that Ryan hadn't felt since the farmhouse kitchen sixty hours ago.

"We love you, Ryan," Jake said, his voice thick with emotion. "We're never letting you out of our sight again."

"Never," Tommy agreed, squeezing his little brother's shoulder.

In the embrace of his family, with his brothers' voices telling him he was safe and his father's steady presence anchoring him, Ryan finally began to believe that his arms—though he couldn't feel them yet—were still his own. The rope was gone. The darkness was over.

He was free.