Writing prompt: There was something about him. Something about the way he watched me. Idling by the edge of his white windowless construction van across the street, he talked to the burly worker beside him, keeping his eyes trained on me. There was something about him. Something about the way he watched me made my heart skip a beat in the worst way possible. For nearly a week, he waited there with a group of other construction workers at the house across from my bus stop, staring at me until I boarded the school bus and disappeared from his sight. Each day I pushed out the time I left my house, wanting to spend as little time as possible completely exposed to him as I waited out in the uncharacteristic heat of late May in my uniform kilt and slim-fitting collared shirt. Each day I came with a new piece of clothing added – tights, a sweater – hoping that it would make me feel a little less exposed. On that late spring morning, my bus was late. I glanced nervously between the ominous second hand making its rounds time and time again across the face of my watch and peering up to see him stare unabashedly at me in my peripherals. Down at my watch, glance up at him. Watch, him. I turned my sight down the road, internally pleading for the bus to turn around the bend and break the silence of the vacant roads surrounding my little suburb. Nothing. No cars, no people, no bus. I glanced down at my watch, avoiding any semblance of eye contact completely, keeping him totally out of my eyesight. The seconds continued to tick by slowly. Each second seemed to bring the tiny hand to an agonizing pause. And then I felt a hand on my mouth, the other holding a knife to my neck as I was dragged across the road into the back of that white construction van.