Mahogany

Cutting, sawing, cutting, sawing. Save for the lone birdsong it was all she could hear. Then it stopped. He was coming back. Was he walking on crushed stone? There was silence before fourteen bangs of a hammer. She tried to blink, tried to close her eyes, tried to dislodge the duck tape and willed her breathing to slow. She needed to hear. She could smell leaves, wood smoke. Was he close? Footsteps and silence. Footsteps and silence. An engine started, it sounded like the pick-up he had carried her in. It faded and the frantic struggle for freedom began.
Held upright in the hardwood box hurt her knees; her clothes were caked in crap. She had to get a grip.