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  “It would look that way and it would be that way,” he said.

  It was the second time he was admitting that he was attracted to me. He just didn’t think it was right to act on those feelings.

  “Not if I’m the one deciding,” I pointed out.

  He said, “There must be equality in a partnership. We aren’t equals now. You’re angry with me, but anger is hard to sustain, so you transform it into something else. Think about it logically. You don’t know anything about me, only that I’ve taken away your freedom.”

  “Okay, okay. I get the point.”

  “You have to force yourself to be logical.”

  “You sound like Spock. Do you know Star Trek?”

  “Yes.”

  I stared at him. I was partly embarrassed by the whole situation, partly glad that we were really talking. I said, “Logically, I feel what I feel. And what I feel is that I love you.”

  I had no idea I was going to say those words, and they shocked me as much as they shocked him. I could tell he was upset, though he tried not show it.

  I turned away from him in confusion. I didn’t know why I’d spoken out that way, or whether I regretted it. But I did know that the words I’d said were true. I loved him.

  He stood up. “If you continue on this track I won’t stay here. I’ll bring you the things you need and go.”

  “Fine!” I snapped again. I was hurt, and also angry. He was taking even the little control I had away from me. “You make all the decisions here, excuse me for forgetting that! Do whatever you want. I don’t care if you stay or not. I don’t care if I never see you again!”

  “Do you want to go out for some fresh air before I leave?”

  “Yes,” I said crossly. “Yes, of course I want to go outside. Sorry I have to bother you with my presence.”

  He scrounged around in one of the bags and handed me a large white shawl, oversized sunglasses, and a black hat with a floppy rim—probably the one they’d made me wear when I was abducted. “Pull the hat down low, please,” he instructed, “and wrap yourself in the shawl. And you must promise not to give me a hard time.”

  “So I’m not allowed to shout help at the top of my lungs?”

  “I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  We stepped out of the warehouse, taking the two chairs with us. There was a narrow navy blue awning along the front wall of the warehouse; I hadn’t noticed it before. But even under the awning, with the sunglasses on and the hat shading my face, the sunlight hurt my eyes, and I had to keep them shut for a few seconds.

  Then I looked up at the blue sky. I was stunned by the sky, the stones on the ground, the dry grass and purple weeds growing along the edges of the warehouse. It was as though I’d only ever seen those things in photographs.

  “I’ve already forgotten what grass looks like,” I said. “And I’ve only been in this stupid warehouse for two weeks.”

  “Yes, it happens fast. I’m not often able to be here during the day, but when I am we’ll try to sit outside.”

  We set the chairs against the wall and sat down. I lifted my head to the sun. I was so grateful to be outdoors that my anger dissolved. I plucked a weed, twirled it in my hand, brought it to my face. “One thing about being confined,” I said. “It makes you appreciate things. I never thought a weed could be so amazing. My mom says ‘Chloe’ means the shoot of a plant in Greek. Hello, Chloe …” I said giddily.

  I looked around me. The view was blocked on both sides—by the aluminum fence on my right, and the cement wall of a building on my left. But the forest up ahead was magnificent. My eyes absorbed every twisting tree branch, every shade of green. I’d never noticed the millions of details in the world around me. Angie did, because she had an artist’s eye, but I’d always taken my surroundings for granted.

  “What will I see if I look around the corner?” I asked.

  “Only another fence.”

  “So this is really like a courtyard?”

  “Yes, it’s closed off.”

  “Poor Mom. She must be so worried. And Angie—she’s anxious even when things are normal.”

  “They’re both working hard for a retrial.”

  “A retrial? You mean instead of an exchange?”

  “A legal process allows them to release someone innocent without seeming to give in to us.”

  “Sometimes you say ‘us’ and sometimes you say ‘I.’ Are you part of a group?”

  “The less you know about me, the better.”

  “Are you the only one I’ll see?”

  “Yes.”

  “But … I mean, just the fact that a criminal is asking for this guy’s release, wouldn’t that be enough to make the prisoner seem guilty? I mean, if that’s who his friends are, it’s worse for him, not better.”

  “We made ourselves sound convincingly insane.”

  I laughed. “So it would seem you chose someone at random?”

  “That’s right.”

  “If you sound insane, doesn’t that scare my mother?”

  “Luckily, she’s an optimist.”

  I linked my fingers and stretched my arms in front of me. “Where’s your car?”

  “Parked in back.”

  “Is it also a limo?”

  “No, just an ordinary car.”

  “But that was a private plane … you must be very rich.”

  He didn’t say anything, of course, and we sat in silence for a while. It was so peaceful, sitting there quietly in the sun. No one seeing us would have believed that I was a prisoner and the man sitting next to me was my jailer.

  “Time to go back,” he said. “I have a lot to do.”

  “I’d like to see your to-do list. Laundry, shopping, visit hostage …”

  It was hard, going back in. I longed to do a cartwheel on the grass. Instead, I had to return to the dreary warehouse.

  Without warning, my depression returned. I curled up on the bed and covered myself with the sheet. I began to think about Dad again. I wanted to sleep and sleep, and wake up when it was all over.

  CHAPTER 14

  Over the next few days I struggled against my depression. My occasional dose of sunshine helped, and I was glad to have music in my life again. My hostage-taker brought me a tennis set, which kept me occupied for far longer than I would have imagined.

  I also had more books now, including two gorgeous coffee table books—one about Greece and one about the history of Olympic gymnastics.

  I wrote out a schedule for myself and tried to follow it:

  9:00–9:30 shower, etc.

  9:30–10:00 breakfast, dishes

  10:00–11:30 wash floor, write in journal, read

  11:30–1:00 exercise, tennis

  1:00–1:30 lunch, dishes

  1:30–3:00 study Italian, do crosswords, read

  ? visit from hostage-taker

  Days without a visit were the hardest. I’d get cabin fever and I’d feel like tearing my hair out. Attacks of homesickness and loneliness would sweep over me in huge waves. I missed Mom, my friends, my house, my room. I missed Pumpkin and everything else about my life at home, even vacuuming the carpets.

  Then, suddenly, my hostage-taker vanished.

  I think it was some time between the fourth and fifth week, but I can’t be sure because my calendar was pretty hopeless by then. I didn’t always remember whether I’d already checked off the day or not, and I also lost track when I was sick. After a while it didn’t seem to matter all that much.

  He vanished without warning. He said he’d come the next day, but he didn’t. He didn’t come back the day after that, or the next, or the next. I ran out of food on the fourth day, but my hostage-taker had brought me a box of canned food for emergencies. The labels had been torn off the tins, but there were stickers to identify them: corn, peaches, soup.

  The cans kept me going for a day or two. Then the can-opener broke. It split into two and there was no way to fix it. I tried stomping on the cans, hitting th
em against the wall, pounding them on the edge of the sink, but they only bent out of shape. Then I lost interest and stopped trying. I wasn’t hungry anyhow.

  I was afraid.

  Not just afraid that my hostage-taker had died and that I would starve to death, but also irrationally afraid, the way you are when you’re little. I was literally afraid of vampires and monsters and alien creatures—afraid they’d suddenly appear in the warehouse. Every scary movie I’d ever seen came back to me with a vengeance. I kept expecting to see the slasher guy from Nightmare on Elm Street sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, grinning at me.

  I was afraid to sleep because I was afraid of my dreams, I was afraid to be awake because I was afraid of the things around me. I knew I was losing my mind, and that my terror was the first symptom.

  I tried to read, write, exercise, but nothing succeeded in calming me or distracting me from my fear. I clutched my monkey. I held him close to me and wouldn’t let him go. He was my only chance, I felt—my only hope for sanity. His sad eyes and friendly smile made me feel I wasn’t really alone. I wondered if feeling so attached to a toy monkey was in itself a sign that I was going mad.

  I draped the towels across the table so they hung over the sides, and I sat under the table with my monkey, wrapped in my blanket and protected by the towel tent.

  Everything terrified me. I tried to sing, but my voice frightened me. I couldn’t play any music because it all sounded spooky and malicious, like the soundtrack to a horror movie. I tried to read, but the words made no sense and I began to imagine that they were written in code.

  I thought about my life, how short it had been, how sad Mom would be when she found out I was dead. Another part of me wanted to die, because I didn’t feel I could bear to live this way much longer.

  I took out my lipstick and drew two streaks on either side of my face like a Native American. I remembered that red was the color of war; I hoped it would ward off demons. I was desperate enough to try anything.

  I was afraid of suffering. I knew starvation was painful. Even if I somehow managed to open the cans, they’d only last another week, and then I’d have nothing.

  I cried and hugged my monkey under the table. “You’re my friend,” I told him. “My best friend.” I kissed his soft fur and held him tighter.

  I lost all sense of time. I drifted in and out of nightmarish semi-sleep and I had no idea whether an hour had passed or a day. A few times my nightmares turned into a wonderful dream and I was convinced I was at home, in my bed, and everyone I loved was downstairs with balloons and a cake, waiting for me to come down and celebrate my return. I felt Pumpkin’s paws on my chest and his tongue tickling my ears. I’d wake up shivering and sobbing.

  I was sitting under the tented table, dressed only in underwear but draped in my blanket, when I heard the door opening. I was too dazed to feel either fear or relief. Through the narrow space between two towels I saw my hostage-taker striding into the warehouse. He walked toward me, crouched down, and peered in. “I couldn’t come. I’m sorry.”

  He’d left the door open because he had a lot of things to unload. I froze for a second, barely believing my luck, and then, with all my remaining strength dashed out and began to run.

  It was late evening, but there was still enough light to see the forest ahead. I couldn’t run fast because I was barefoot and weak and still clutching the blanket around me.

  My hostage-taker came after me, lifted me off the ground, held me over his shoulder. I pounded his back with my fists, though I was dizzy and the ground seemed to be spinning.

  He carried me back inside and shut the door. “As soon as you calm down we’ll go out for a walk,” he said. He handed me a glass of chocolate milk. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

  Drinking the milk re-energized me and also renewed my anger. I sprang toward him and began hitting him on his chest and arms. I called him every name I could think of. “I hate you, I hate you!” I shouted. I wanted to kick him, but I wasn’t wearing shoes. Instead I bit his arm, hard. I was sure I’d hurt him and I was glad.

  “You’ll feel better after a walk,” he said, trying to move away from me. “We can go to the forest.”

  “So you can kill me when there’s no one around?” I stomped to the bed, held my monkey against my chest, and draped the blanket over my head so I was entirely hidden. I heard him moving around, cleaning up, putting stuff away.

  “I’m just going to bring more things from the car,” he said. I heard the door opening and shutting.

  I peeked out from under the blanket and saw a plate with a snack in the shape of a face: diamond cracker eyes with olive pupils, a brie nose, a comical raisin mouth turned up at one end and down at the other.

  The face only made me angrier, and I pushed the plate away.

  But I couldn’t resist for long. I started nibbling on the snack, and I felt my anger slowly dissolving. I’d never been good at maintaining anger. Much as I wanted to stay angry, much as I was determined to be angry until doomsday, I always gave in. Anger just wasn’t any fun; it was too draining. I had no idea how anyone could sustain it for extended periods, though I knew that some people did. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live that way.

  My hostage-taker returned with the last of the groceries.

  “We can go now,” he said, handing me the black hat.

  I pulled on my jeans and we stepped outside. I felt dazed and disoriented. It was late evening, but the sun had not yet set, and the sky was palest blue with streaks of gold. I noticed that my hostage-taker was carrying a flashlight—did that mean we’d be staying out until dark?

  It was bliss being outdoors. I walked next to my hostage-taker, my monkey still in my arms. We reached the forest and I leaned against one of the trees, pressed my head against the bark, and took a deep breath. My body seemed to be feeding on the sweet night air and I felt the tension seeping out of my limbs. It was over—I was alive after all. And I was no longer afraid of indefinable things. Or at least not as afraid as before. My hostage-taker’s presence kept the ghouls and vampires at bay.

  I felt happy. It was the kind of happiness that comes from being rescued or from something awful coming to an end.

  I turned toward my hostage-taker and folded my arms around him. I rested my head against his white cotton shirt, my monkey dangling from my hand. I felt immeasurable love for him. I wanted him with all my being, I wanted him more than seemed humanly possible. I’d never been truly in love, but now that it had happened, there was no question about it—what I was feeling was love. Whatever I’d felt in the past—guys I’d thought were cute or wished I was dating—all that was a kid’s infatuation compared to this.

  I knew there was a good reason he hadn’t been able to see me, and I was afraid for him. Yes, he’d done something incredibly stupid and wrong, but he did it because he thought it was the right thing.

  “I love you, I love you,” I murmured.

  My hostage-taker didn’t return my hug, but he didn’t push me away. I was too desperate.

  “Definitely the embrace of an athlete,” he said.

  “Former athlete,” I corrected him. But he was the one who felt strong and sturdy against my body, and for a moment it seemed to me that I couldn’t tell us apart; I couldn’t tell where his body ended and mine began. I wanted his strength to flow into me and for my love to flow into him. My face was pressed against his chest, and I could hear his heart beating under his shirt. It made him seem unbearably vulnerable.

  “I’m sorry I bit you,” I said.

  “Let’s sit down,” he said finally and carefully extricated himself from my grasp. We sat on the ground and I flattened my hand on the uneven surface. The earth was as alive as I was, and I was sure it could feel me as intensely as I felt it.

  “I couldn’t come before,” he said. “I would have, but it wasn’t possible.”

  “I was sure you’d been killed. And that stupid can opener broke.”

  “Yes, I saw
. I’m very sorry. I’ll bring a new one that won’t break, but this won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “How much longer will I be here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about school?”

  “I’m sure they’ll make allowances. I’m supposed to transmit a message from your high school in fact.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because it’s a charade,” he said, pronouncing the word so it rhymed with fraud.

  “What do you mean, charade?” I asked, imitating his pronunciation of the word.

  “Messages sent to you, by all sorts of groups, jumping on the opportunity to exploit the situation. Maybe not your high school, but there’s politics involved in almost everything else.”

  “Do you hate Americans?” I had to clear away obstacles to how I felt about him, I had to know that he was who I thought he was. I wouldn’t be able to love him if he was full of blind hatred.

  But he said, as I knew he would, “How can I hate people I don’t know?”

  “What about your friend?”

  “What happened had nothing to do with politics. It was about power. Weak people can’t resist the seduction of power, and they can’t resist abusing it.”

  “You have power over me, too,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. He seemed very tired suddenly.

  I stopped talking. Maybe he’d fall asleep and I’d be able to stay outdoors longer. I realized that I no longer wanted to escape. If I escaped now, he’d be caught.

  He read my mind. “We can’t remain out here for too long. These woods aren’t part of the property.”

  “Just a few more minutes. My monkey needs the fresh air.”

  “Have you given him a name?”

  “Abducted monkeys don’t get to have names. They become anonymous, just like me.”

  “You’re far from anonymous,” he said.

  “I don’t know what I would have done without him.” I planted a loud kiss on my monkey’s head. “Where did you find him?”

  “Just a kiosk. I was lucky to spot him in my rush.”

  “It’s funny,” I mused. “When I thought you weren’t coming, the most ordinary things became demonic. Music, my own voice, a tube of toothpaste. I fell into a sort of madness—ordinary things were transformed into something grotesque or evil. But what if the way we see things, as harmless and safe, is just as arbitrary? What if it’s only more practical to see the world as neutral, and that’s why the people who experience a harmless world are the normal ones?”