Take pictures of Bonnie

The pool bubbled. Hands were rising to the surface, becoming more solid as they rose. They were holding small, rectangular objects. Bonnie's eyes went wide, and she began to kick against the hands that held her upright in the air, spread-eagled in the middle of the room.

Outside the house, eating a stick of candy floss by the merry-go-round, Hank put a hand to his pocket. "Hey, man," he said to Ben. He'd previously thought Ben was a dork, but it turned out the guy was pretty cool. "Have you seen my cell phone?"

"What? No. Hey, mine's missing as well."

"Huh. Weird."

The cell phones raised into the air. Spectral thumbs unlocked them, found the cameras, set them to record in high definition, turned them in Bonnie's direction. She gazed in horror into the black, unfeeling lenses, dozens of them, like insectile eyes, all mercilessly transcribing every second of her struggles. One was pointed straight at her cleavage, the freckled valley between the cups of her sky-blue bra. One whirred and clicked as it snapped shots of her round bottom, straining against her yellow panties. One filmed her face, capturing her sweat-slick frustration, bouncing red curls and furious green eyes. And one aimed between her legs, observing the way her mound of Venus filled out her panties and capturing a single escaped wisp of ginger pubic hair.

"When we're done here," said Trickett, "we'll give the boys their phones back. That's right, Bonnie. All the boys in your class will have pictures of you! In your underwear! What do you think about that?"

"You fucking... I'll get you for this! I'll kick your ass! Put me down!"

"And do you know what's going to happen next, Bonnie?"

"Fuck you!"

Trickett's silvery laugh floated through the air. "I think you do!"