Mud Vein

Chapter One

Day 1

I wrote a novel. I wrote a novel and it was published. I wrote a novel and it cruised onto the New York Times Bestseller List. I wrote that novel and then I watched it play out in a movie theater with a large, buttery bag of popcorn in my lap. My novel. That I wrote. I did it all alone, because that’s how I like it. And if the rest of the world wants to pay for a peek into my discombobulated mind, so be it. Life is too short to hide your wrongs. So I hide myself instead.

It’s my thirty-third birthday. I wake up in a cold sweat. I am hot. No, I am cold. I am freezing. The blankets tangled around my legs feel unfamiliar—too smooth. I pull at them, trying to cover myself. My fingers feel thick and piggy against the silky material. Maybe they’re swollen. I can’t tell because my brain is sluggish, and my eyes are glued shut, and now I’m getting hot again. Or maybe I’m cold. I stop fighting the blankets, letting myself drift … backwards .… backwards…

When I wake up, there is light in the room. I can see it through my eyelids. It is dim—even for a rainy Seattle day. I have floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom; I roll in their direction and force open my eyes only to find myself facing a wall. A wall made of logs. There are none of those in my house. I let my eyes travel the length of them, all the way up to the ceiling before I bolt upright, coming fully awake.

I am not in my bedroom. I stare around the room in shock. Whose bedroom? I think back to the night before. Had I—

No way. I haven’t even looked at a man since … there is no way I went home with someone. Besides, last night I had dinner with my editor. We’d had a couple glasses of wine. Chianti doesn’t make you black out. My breathing is shallow as I try to remember what happened after I left the restaurant.

Gas, I’d stopped for gas at the Red Sea Service Station on Magnolia and Queen Anne. What after that? I can’t remember.

I look down at the duvet clutched between my white knuckles. Red … feather … unfamiliar. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and the room wobbles and tilts. I feel sick right away. Day after a huge drinking binge sick. I gasp for air, trying to breathe deeply enough to quell my nausea. Chianti doesn’t do this, I tell myself again.

“I’m dreaming,” I say out loud. But I’m not. I know that. I stand up and I am dizzy for a good ten seconds before I am able to take my first step. I bend over and vomit … right on the wood floor. My stomach is empty, but it heaves anyway. I lift my hand to wipe my mouth and my arm feels wrong—too heavy. This isn’t a hangover. I’ve been drugged. I stay bent over for several more seconds before I straighten up. I feel like I’m on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair. I stumble forward, taking in my surroundings. The room is round. It’s freezing. There is a fireplace—with no fire—and a four-poster bed. There is no door. Where is the door? Panic kicks in and I run in a clumsy circle, grabbing onto the bed to steady myself when my legs buckle.

“Where is the door?”

I can see my breath steaming into the air. I focus on that, watch it expand and dissipate. My eyes take a long time to re-focus. I’m not sure how long I stand there, except my feet start to ache. I look down at my toes. I can barely feel them. I have to move. Do something. Get out. On the wall in front of me there is a window. I amble forward and rip aside the flimsy curtain. The first thing I notice is that I’m on the second floor. The second thing I notice—oh God! My brain sends a chill down the rest of my body—a warning. You are done, Senna, it says. Over. Dead. Someone took you. My mouth is slow to respond, but when it does, I hear my intake of breath fill the dead silence around me. I didn’t believe people actually gasped in real life until the moment I hear myself do it. This moment—this gasping, heart-stopping moment, when all that fills my eyes is snow. So much snow. All the snow in the world, piled right below me.

I hear my body crack against the wood, then I fall into darkness. When I wake up, I am on the floor lying in a pool of my vomit. I moan and a sharp pain shoots through my wrist when I try to push myself up. I cry out and shove my hand over my mouth. If someone is here I don’t want them to hear me. Good one, Senna, I think. You should have thought of that before you started fainting all over the room and making a racket.

I grip my wrist with my free hand and slide up the wall for support. It is then that I notice what I am wearing. Not my clothes. A white linen pajama set—expensive. Thin. No wonder I’m so damn cold.

Oh God.

I shut my eyes. Who undressed me? Who brought me here? My hands are stiff as I reach across my body to examine myself. I touch my chest, pull my pants down. No bleeding, no soreness, except I am wearing white cotton panties that someone put on me. Someone had me naked. Someone touched my body. Closing my eyes at the thought, I start to shiver. Uncontrollably. No, please, no.

“Oh, God,” I hear myself say. I have to breathe—deep and steady.

You’re freezing, Senna. And you’re in shock. Get it together. Think.

Whoever brought me here had more sinister plans than having me freeze to death. I look around. There is wood in the fireplace. If this sick fuck left me wood, perhaps he left me something to light it with. The bed I woke up in is in the center of the room; it is hand carved with four posters. Sheer chiffon is draped across the posts. It’s pretty, which makes me sick. I take inventory of the rest of the room: a heavy wooden dresser, an armoire, a fireplace and one of those thick animal fur rugs. Throwing open the wardrobe, I rifle through clothes … too many clothes. Are they here for me? My hand lingers on a label. The realization that they are all in my size sickens me. No—I tell myself. No, they can’t be mine. This is all a mistake. This can’t be for me, the colors are wrong. Reds … blues … yellows…

But my brain knows it’s not a mistake. My brain is acquainted with grief and so is my body.

Task at hand, Senna.

I find an ornate silver box on the top shelf of the armoire. I pull it down, shake it. It’s heavy. Foreign. Inside is a box of lighters, a key, and a small silver knife. I want to question the contents of the box. Stare at them, touch them—but I need to move fast. I use the knife to cut a strip of material from the bottom of a shirt, then I loop it and tie it into a knot with my teeth and good hand. Slipping my wrist into my makeshift sling, I flinch.

I pocket the knife and fumble for one of the lighters. My hand hovers above the box. Eight pink Zippos. If I didn’t already have chills, I’d get them now. I blow it off. I can’t blow it off. I can and I have to, because I’m freezing. My hand is shaking as I reach for the lighter. It’s a coincidence. I laugh. Can anything tied to a kidnapping be coincidence? I’ll think later. Right now I need to get warm. My fingers are numb. It takes six tries before I can get the wheel on the Zippo to spin. It leaves indentations on my thumb The wood is hard to catch. Damp. Had he put it here recently? I look for something to feed the flames, but there is nothing I can burn that I might not need later.

I am already thinking survival, and it scares me. Kindling. What can I use for kindling? My eyes search the space until I see a white box in the corner of the armoire with a red medical cross on the top. A first-aid kit. I run to it and flip the lid. Bandages, aspirin, needles—God. I finally find single use packages of alcohol prep wipes. I grab a handful and run back to the fireplace. I rip the first one open and hold the lighter to its tip. It catches and flares. I tuck the burning pad against the log and rip open another package, repeating the process. I pray to whoever is in charge of fire and blow gently.

The wood catches. I pull the thick comforter off the bed and wrap myself in it, crouching in front of the meager flames. It is not enough. I am so cold I want to dive into the fire and let it burn this cold off of me. I stay like that, a lump on the floor, until I stop shaking.

Then I move.

Chapter Two

There is a trapdoor under the rug with a heavy, metal handle. It is locked. I yank on it for five minutes with my good hand until my shoulder burns and I want heave up my guts again. I stare at it for a moment before I run to get the key from the silver box. What kind of sick game is this? And why do I take so long to realize the thing about the key? I don’t know what to do. I pace around the trapdoor in my bare feet, smacking the key against my thigh. It is an abnormally large key, old fashioned and bronze. The keyhole in the trapdoor looks large enough to fit it. I get another chill and this time I know it’s not just the cold. I stop my pacing to examine the key more closely. It takes up my entire hand, fingertips to wrist. There is a question mark in the center of the handle, the metal curling around the character in an ornate design. I drop the key. It clanks heavily against the floor not far from where I threw up. I back up until my shoulder blades are pressed against the wall.

“What. Is. This?” There is no one to answer, of course, unless they’re waiting just below that trap door to tell me exactly what this is. I shiver and my fingers automatically close around the knife in my pocket. The blade is sharp. I feel really good about that. I have a penchant for sharp knives and I sure as hell know how to carve skin. If I have a key, they have a key. I can wait here for them to come up, or I can go down. I prefer the second option; it feels like it affords me a little more power.

I walk quickly, sidestepping the vomit and snatch up the key. Before I can think about what I am doing, I crouch over the trapdoor and plunge it into the keyhole.

Metal against metal and then … click.

I use my good hand to heave it open. It’s damn heavy. I’m careful not to make noise when I set it down. I peer into the darkness. There is a ladder. At the bottom of the ladder are a round rug and a hallway. I cannot see past a few feet. I am going to have to go down. I place the knife between my teeth and count the rungs as I climb.

One … two … three … four … five … six. My feet hit the rug. The floor is cold. The cold shoots up my legs. Why hadn’t I thought to look for shoes?

I hold my knife at arm’s length, ready to stab anyone who jumps out at me. I’ll go for the eye socket, and if I can’t reach that—the balls. Just one sharp jab, and when they’re bent over, I’ll run. Now that there is a plan, I take a look around. There is a skylight above me, laser-thin rays of sunlight pierce through it and hit the wood floor. I step through them, my eyes darting around for a hidden attacker.

I am at the end of a corridor: wood floors, wood walls, wood ceiling. There are three doors: two on the left side, one on the right. All of them are closed. There is a wall directly behind me, as well as the ladder I just climbed down. Beyond the hallway I can see a landing. I decide that’s where I’ll go first. If someone jumps out of one of those doors, I’ll be past them and on my way to the front door. Something is whispering in the back of my brain that it won’t be that easy. I walk on my tiptoes past the doors and stop on the landing. The knife is clutched in my hand, though it seems small compared to the situation.

I am obviously in a cabin. I can make out a large, open kitchen down the stairs and to the left. To the right is a living room with thick, cream-colored carpet. Everything is eerily quiet. I creep down the stairs, my back to the wall. If I can make it to the front door, I can run. Get help. My mind goes to the endless snow I saw out the window in the round room. I push the thought away. There will be someone … a house … or a store, maybe. God, why had I not thought to take shoes? I am all action and no brains. I am going to have to run through three feet of snow with nothing on my feet. The front door is directly at the bottom of the staircase. I glance up to the top floor to make sure no one is following me, and then dive for it. It is locked. A keypad sits next to the door. It opens electronically. I am going to have to find another way out. I am shaking again. If someone attacked me now, I wouldn’t be able to hold the knife steady enough to defend myself. I could break a window. The kitchen is in front of me and to my left. I try that first. It is rectangular. Shiny, stainless steel appliances. They look brand new.

God, where am I? A window runs the length of the kitchen, its continuity broken only by the fridge. In the corner there is a heavy circular table with two curved benches on either side. I walk to the drawers and pull them open until I find the one with the knives. I pluck out the largest one, testing its weight in my hand before leaving my baby knife on the counter. I think twice and slip it in my pocket instead.

Now that I have a weapon, a real weapon, I head for the living room. Books line one wall; on the other is the fireplace. A sofa and a loveseat are arranged around the coffee table. There is no way out. I look for something to break a window with. The coffee table is too heavy for me to lift—especially with a sprained wrist. When I look more closely I see that it is bolted to the floor. There are no chairs. I go back to the kitchen, open every cabinet and drawer, my desperation increasing with every second I risk being discovered. There is nothing large enough or heavy enough to break a window. With a sinking feeling, I realize I’m going to have to go back upstairs. This could be a trap. There could be someone hiding behind one of the doors. But, why give me a key to the room I was locked in if they wanted me trapped? Were they playing games? My whole body is shaking as I climb back up the stairs. I haven’t cried in years, but I feel as close to tears as I’ve ever come. One foot in front of the other, Senna, and if someone jumps out at you, you use your knife and cut them in half. I am between the doors. I choose the one to my left, put my hand on the knob and turn. I can hear myself breathing: ragged, cold, terrified breaths.

It opens.

“Oh my God.”

I slap my hand over my mouth and clutch my weapon tighter. I don’t lower my knife, I keep it up and ready. I step onto the carpet, my toes curling around the shag like they need to hold onto something. A canopy bed sits against the far wall, facing me. It looks like a child’s bed in design but it is larger than an adult king. Two of its posters are life-sized carousel horses, their poles disappearing into the wooden beams of the ceiling. There is a fireplace to my left, a window seat to my right. I am having trouble breathing. First the lighters, then the key, then … this.

I can’t get out of there fast enough. I close the door behind me. One more door. This one feels more frightening than the last. Is it just my intuition or is this the last place my kidnapper could be hiding? I stand facing it for the longest time, my breath curling into the air, and the frozen fingers of my good hand clutching my little knife. I reach for the knob with my injured hand and flinch when pain shoots up my arm. I push it open and wait. The room is dark, but so far no one has jumped out at me. I take a step forward, feel for a light switch. Then I hear it; a man’s moan—deep and guttural. I back out of the room, pointing my knife at the sound. I want to run, climb back up the ladder and lock myself in the round room. I don’t. If I do not go looking for what brought me here, it will come looking for me. I will not be a victim. Not again. My heart is beating erratically. The moaning suddenly stops as if he’s realized I’m there. I can hear him breathing. I wonder if he can hear me. The noise starts again, muffled words this time as if he’s speaking through something. Words … words that sound like HELP ME! This could be a trap. What do I do? I walk right into it.

Chapter Three

No one attacks me, but my body is wound up and ready to spring. The deep cries of Eeeel, eeeeel become more persistent. I search for a light switch, which means I have to transfer my knife to my injured hand. It doesn’t matter—if someone comes at me, I’ll take every bit of pain to cut them open. I find it: a broad, flat square that I have to push down with two fingers. In the time it takes for the lights to turn on, I quickly switch the knife back to my good hand. The room is suddenly washed in a urine-yellow glow. It flickers before gripping whatever power it’s using, and starts to hum. I blink at the sudden change. My knife hand extends as I stab at air. There is nothing in front of me—no attacker—but there is a bed. In it is a man, his arms and legs bound to the four posters with bright white rags. He is blindfolded and gagged with the same white cloth. I watch in shock as his head thrashes from side to side. The muscles in his arms are pulled so taut I can see the outlines of where each one starts and ends. I start to rush forward to help him, then stop. I could still be in danger. This could be a trap. He could be the trap.

I walk cautiously, keeping my eyes on the corners of the room as though someone might emerge from the wood walls. Then I spin toward the door from which I entered, to make sure no one is sneaking up behind me. I continue this cycle until I reach the side of the bed, and my heart is racing painfully. I rotate the wrist that is clutching the knife in a circle. There is a door next to the bed. I kick it open and he goes perfectly still, his face angled toward me, his breathing coming hard. He has dark hair … lots of scruff on his face. The bathroom is empty, the shower curtain pulled back as if my captor had thought—at the last minute—to reassure me he wasn’t there. I leave the bathroom. The man is no longer struggling. Angling my back to the wall, I reach over and yank away his blindfold and gag. I am half leaning over him when we see each other for the first time. I can see his shock. He can see mine. He blinks rapidly as if he’s trying to clear his vision. I drop my knife.

“Oh my God.” That’s the second time I’ve said that. I don’t want to make a habit of it. I don’t believe in God.

“Oh my God,” I say again. I bend slowly at the knees, keeping my eyes on him and the door until I’ve retrieved my weapon. I back up. I need distance between us. I’m moving toward the door, but then I realize I could be ambushed from behind. I spin. I extend my knife. There is nothing behind me. I spin again—point my knife at the man in the bed. This can’t be happening. This is crazy. I’m acting crazy. I press my back to the nearest wall. This is the only way I feel relatively safe, when I can survey the room and not feel like someone is sneaking up from behind.

“Senna?” I hear my name. I look back at his face. Any minute I expect to wake from this nightmare. I will be in my own bed, underneath my white comforter, wearing my own pajamas.

“Senna,” he chokes. “Cut me loose … please…”

I hesitate.

“Senna,” he says again. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s me.”

He leans his head back against the pillow and closes his eyes like he can’t stand the pain.

I hold the knife tightly and chop at the white fabric that is binding his arms. I can barely breathe—never mind see. I slice his skin with the tip of the knife. He flinches, but doesn’t make a sound. I watch his blood pool in fascination before it streams down his arm.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “My hands are shaking. I can’t—”

“It’s all right, Senna. Take your time.”

Funny, I think. He’s the one tied up and he’s reassuring me.

I make it through his other hand binding, and he takes the knife from me, cutting his own legs free. I silently panic. I shouldn’t have handed over my knife. He could be … he could be the one…

It doesn’t make sense.

When he’s through, he springs off the bed, massaging his wrists. I take a step away from him … toward the door. The only thing he has on is a thin pair of pajama pants. Someone put those on him too, I think.

And then I say his name in my mind: Isaac Asterholder.

When he looks at me he narrows his eyes. “Is anyone else here? Have you seen—”

“No,” I cut him off. “I don’t think anyone is here.”

He immediately makes for the door. I flinch as he passes me. I want my knife. I linger in the doorway, not sure what to trust. Then I follow him. He searches the rooms while I cradle my wrist. If someone attacks us, he will be their first target. I need something sharp to hold in my hand. We descend the stairs and Isaac tries the front door, yanks hard when it won’t open, slams his fist against the wood and swears. I see him eye the keypad, but he doesn’t touch it. A keypad on the inside of the house. Whoever put us here gave us the option of getting out.

After he’s made a thorough search of both floors, he looks for something to break a window.

“We could both lift the bench,” I offer, motioning toward the heavy wooden table in the kitchen. Isaac rubs his temples.

“Okay,” he says. But when we try to lift it, we find that there are smooth, bronze bolts locking it to the floor. He checks the rest of the furniture. It’s all the same. Anything heavy enough to break a window is bolted to the floor.

“We need to get out,” I insist. “There may be tools to lift those bolts. We can find help before whoever brought us here comes back. There has to be something near here, somewhere we can go…”

He turns toward me suddenly angry. “Senna, do you really think that someone would go through all the trouble to abduct us, lock us in a house and then make it easy to get away?”

I open and close my mouth. Abducted. We’d been abducted.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But we have to at least try!”

He’s opening and closing drawers, rifling through their contents. He swings open the fridge and his face visibly pales.

“What? What is it?” I rush forward to see what he’s seeing. The refrigerator is large, industrial-sized. Every shelf is stocked without an inch of space to spare. The freezer is the same: meat, vegetables, ice cream, cans of frozen juice. My head spins as I take it all in. There is enough food for months. I grab a large can of tomatoes and throw it at the window as hard as I can. I throw it with my left hand, but fear propels it forward at an impressive speed. It hits the window with a muted thud, and drops to the counter, rolling backward toward the floor. We stare at it, dented on one side, for several minutes before Isaac bends to pick it up. He tries, pulling his arm back like a pitcher and letting it shoot from his fingertips. This time the thud is louder, but the result the same. I run back to the front door, throwing myself at the handle. I scream, slamming my fists against the wood, ignoring the searing pain in my injured hand. I need to feel pain, I want to. I pound and kick for a solid minute before I feel Isaac’s hands on my arms. He pulls me away.

“Senna! Senna!” He shakes me. I stare up at him, my breath coming quickly. He must see something in my eyes, because he wraps me in a hug. I shiver against his warmth until he pulls away from me.

“Let me see your wrist,” he says gently. I hold it out to him, flinching as he pokes at it gently with his cold fingertips. He nods in approval at my makeshift sling. “It’s a sprain,” he says. “Did you have it before you woke up?”

I shake my head. “I fell … upstairs.”

“Where did you wake up?”

I tell him about the room at the top of the ladder, how I found the key.

“I think I was drugged.”

He nods. “Yes, we both were. Let’s go take a look at this room. Also, if there is power, there should be heat. We need to find the thermostat.”

We make our way back up the stairs.

I look at his face. His dark eyes look bleary like he’s coming down from a high—except he doesn’t take drugs. Not even for a headache. I know a lot about this man. That’s what’s shocking me the most. Why am I here? Why am I here with him?

His head swivels to look at me. It’s as if he’s really seeing me for the first time. I can see the up and down movement of his chest as he struggles for breath. This was me, fifteen minutes ago. His eyes search my face, before he says, “What do you remember?”

I shake my head. “I had dinner in Seattle. I left around ten. I stopped for gas on my way home. That’s it. You?”

He stares at the ground, his brows drawn together. “I was at the hospital, just leaving my shift. The sun had just come up. I remember stopping to look at it. Then nothing.”

“This doesn’t make sense. Why would someone bring the two of us here?”

I think about the lighters and the key and the carousel room, and then I push it from my brain. A coincidence. But I want to laugh even as I think it.

“I don’t know,” Isaac says. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say that. I think about all the times in my life I’ve counted on him for answers—demanded answers—and he always has them.

But that was then…

He runs his hand over the stubble on his jaw, and I notice the deep purple bruises on his wrists where his bindings dug into his skin. How long had he been tied up like that? How long had I been unconscious?

“We need to get warm,” Isaac says.

“I made a fire … in the room up the ladder.”

We search for the thermostat. I notice how white his knuckles are around the handle of the knife. We find it in the carousel room, behind the door. He turns on the heat.

“If there is power, we must be close to something,” I say hopefully. He shakes his head.

“Not necessarily. It could be a generator. This might not last.”

I nod, but I don’t believe him.

We climb up to the round room to sit by the fire and wait for the house to heat. He makes me go first. Once I am up, he glances over his shoulder one last time and then quickly climbs up to join me. We close the trapdoor and lock it. We try to scoot the armoire over it, but that’s bolted too. The fire I built is puttering out. There are three extra logs. I reach for one and place it on the flames while Isaac takes a look around.

“Where do you think we are?” I ask when he comes to sit on the floor next to me. He sets the knife down between us. This makes me feel better. I don’t trust anything yet. If he’s not hiding his weapons from me, that’s a good thing.

“This much snow? Who knows? We could be anywhere.”

We are nowhere, I think.

“How did you get out of your bindings?”

“What?” I don’t understand what he’s saying, then I realize that he thinks I was tied up too.

“I didn’t have any,” I say.

He turns his head to look at me. We are so close the vapors of our breath are mingling mid-air. He has dark stubble on his face. I want to rub my palm across it just so I can feel something sharp and real.

His eyes, always intense, are two dark thinking pools. He hardly ever blinks. It unnerved me in the beginning when I first met him, but after a while I grew to appreciate it. It was like he was afraid to miss something. His patients, who also noticed it, used to say they appreciated his lack of blinking in surgery.

You know Doctor Asterholder is never going to nick a vein, was the running joke in the hospital.

Why wasn’t I gagged and blindfolded, with my arms tied to the posts of my bed?

“So you could free me,” he says, reading my thoughts.

A chill runs up my spine.

“Isaac, I’m afraid.”

He shifts closer, puts an arm around my shoulders. “Me too.”

Chapter Four

When the house is warmer and our limbs feel like they can move again, we unlock the trap door and go downstairs. We sit facing each other at the table in the kitchen. Our eyes have the glazed vacant look of two people in shock. Though I have no doubt we’d spring, quick as cats, if we needed to. I touch the handle of my knife. Both Isaac and I have set our knives on the table in front of us; the knives are pointed in a face off. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to know that there is suspicion on his face. I wear it too. We look silly; abducted and locked in a house, waiting for whoever did this to return.

“Ransom,” I say. My voice is raspy. It catches in my throat before I can say anything else. I swallow and look up at Isaac.

His eyes dart to the corners of the room. His leg is bouncing up and down, I can feel the vibrations of it in the wood. Every few minutes his eyes move to the window, then back to the door.

“Maybe…”

I catch the pause after maybe. He wants to say more, but he doesn’t trust me. And if I were to really examine my theory it would most likely fall apart. Kidnappings made for ransom were fast and messy; guns pointed at your head, urgent demands. Not keypads on the door and enough food to last through one of George R.R. Martin’s long winters. I lay my hands flat on the table, fingertips pointing inward, and rest my chin over them. My pinkie is touching the handle of my knife.

We wait.

The cabin is so eerily silent we would hear a car or person approaching from a mile away, but we keep checking anyway. Waiting … waiting. Finally, Isaac gets up. I hear him walking from room to room. I wonder if he is looking for something or if he just needs to move. I realize it’s probably the latter. He can’t sit still when he’s nervous. When he comes back in the kitchen, I break the silence.

“What if they’re not coming back?”

He doesn’t answer me for the longest time.

“There is a pantry, there—” he nods toward a narrow door to the left of the table. “It’s stocked with enough food to last for months. There is a fifty-pound bag of flour. But the wood closet only has enough wood to last a few weeks. Four at most if we ration it.”

I don’t want to think about the gargantuan bag of flour, so I pretend I didn’t hear him. The wood, however, bothers me. I’d rather not freeze to death. There are plenty of trees outside. If we could get outside, that is. We’d have wood.

“The carousel room,” he says. “Do you find it strange?” His voice is clear, precise. It’s the one he uses with his patients. I’m not one of his patients and I don’t appreciate being spoken to like one.

“Yes,” I say simply.

“The book?” His voice moves to gruff. “There was nothing in there about the carousel, was there?”

“No,” I say. “There wasn’t”

There didn’t need to be.

“Do you think this could be one of your fans? Someone obsessed?”

I don’t want to think about that, but it has already crossed my mind. I didn’t want to be the one responsible for this.

“It’s possible,” I say cautiously. “But that doesn’t explain you.”

“Have you been getting any threats, strange letters?”

“No, Isaac.”

He looks up when I say his name.

“Senna, you need to think carefully. This could make a difference.”

“I have!” I snap. “There have been no letters out of the norm, no e-mails. Nothing!”

He nods, walks to the fridge.

“What are you doing?” I ask, spinning in my seat to watch him.

“Making us something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say quickly.

“We don’t know how long we’ve been out. You need to eat and drink something or you’ll dehydrate.”

He starts taking things out of the fridge and putting them on the counter. He finds a glass, fills it with water from the faucet, and brings it to me. It’s a funny color.

I take it. How can I eat or drink at a time like this? I force the water down because he’s standing in front of me, waiting.

I stare blindly at the snow outside as he stands at the stove. The stove is gas; brand new from the looks of it.

When he comes back to the table he’s carrying two plates, each piled with scrambled eggs. The smell makes me sick. He sets it down in front of me and I pick up the fork.

Weapons, we have so many: forks, knives … you’d think if someone were coming back, they wouldn’t provide us with these things to attack them with. I voice my thoughts, and Isaac nods.

“I know.”

Of course he had already thought of this. Always two steps ahead…

“Your hair is different,” he says. “It took me a minute to recognize you … upstairs.”

I blink at him. Are we really talking about my hair? I feel self-conscious about my white streak. I make sure it’s tucked away, behind my ear.

“I grew it out.”

Put food in mouth, chew, swallow, put food in mouth, chew, swallow.

We don’t speak about my hair anymore. When I am finished eating, I announce that I need to use the restroom. I ask him to come with me. The only bathroom in the house is the one in the bedroom where I found Isaac. He waits outside the door, knife in hand. Before we leave the kitchen he upgrades to a larger one. It is almost funny, but not. Big knife, big wound. I had settled for a steak knife myself. They are easy to handle and sharp as hell.

I relieve myself and step over to the sink to wash my hands. There is a mirror hanging above it. I look at myself and flinch. My hair is limp and greasy, the inch-wide streak of grey that showed up when I was twelve is startling against my pale face. I have done everything to rid myself of it: dying it, cutting it, pulling it out strand by strand. Color won’t take to the grey. I have sat in dozens of chairs over the years and every stylist has said the same thing. “It doesn’t make sense … it won’t take the color.” No matter what I do, it always comes back like a stubborn weed. Eventually, I let it be. The old part of me won out.

I turn on the water, it sputters like the croup for several seconds before a weak brown stream comes dribbling out. I splash it over my face, drink some. It tastes funny—like rust and dirt.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Isaac hands me his butcher knife. I have to put my knife down to hold it, since my wrist is a gimp.

“Me too,” he says. “Don’t let the bad guys get us.”

I grin—I actually grin—as he closes the door. His humor always shows up at the oddest moments. I thought I was the bad guy, I didn’t think I’d ever be at the mercy of one.

When he comes out, his face has been washed, too, and his hair is damp. There is a trickle of water running from his temple.

“Now what?” I say.

“Are you tired? We could take turns. Do you want to sleep?”

“Hell no!”

He laughs. “Yeah, I get ya.”

There is a long awkward pause.

“I’d like to take a shower,” I say. What I don’t add is, in case the sick fuck touched me…

He nods. I climb up the ladder to get something clean to wear. It makes me sick, putting on clothes that someone chose and put here for me. I wish I had my own, but not even the pajamas I’m still wearing are mine. I study the contents of the wardrobe. Almost every article of clothing is something I would have chosen for myself—except for the color. There is too much of that. This is creepy. Who would know me well enough to buy me clothes? Clothes that I actually like? I pluck a long sleeve yoga top from a hanger and find the matching pants underneath it. In a drawer are a variety of panties and bras.

Oh God!

I decide to go without either. I can’t wear underwear that some sicko bought and folded into a drawer. It would feel like was touching me … there. I slam the drawer closed.

Isaac helps me down the ladder. Since my attack on the door, my wrist has swollen to twice its size.

“Keep it elevated and out of the hot water,” he says before I go into the bathroom.

I find soap and shampoo under the sink. Generic stuff. The soap is white and smells like laundry. I keep the shower to five minutes even though I want to stay longer. The brownish water never gets really hot and it has a strange smell.

I get out and dry myself with the lemon-colored towel that is hanging on the towel rack. Such a cheerful color. Such an ironic color. And so thoughtfully hung here for us. I rub at my arms and legs trying to capture all of the drops. Yellow to soften the blow of the snow and the prison and the abduction. Maybe whoever brought us here thought that the color of this towel would stave off depression. I drop it on the floor, disgusted. Then I laugh, hard and shrill.

I hear Isaac knock lightly on the door.

“You okay, Senna?”

His voice is muffled. “I’m fine,” I call out. Then I laugh so hard and loud he opens the door and lets himself in.

“I’m fine,” I say to his concerned face, trying to stifle my laughter. I catch the laughter behind my hand as tears begin to leak from my eyes. I’m laughing so hard I have to hold myself up by the sink.

“I’m fine,” I gasp. “Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard? Like I can be fine. Are you fine?”

I see the muscles in his cheek flicker. His eye color is metallic, like a tin can.

He reaches for me, but I bat his hand away. I’ve stopped laughing.

“Don’t touch me.” I say it louder and harsher than I intended.

He tucks his lips in and nods. He gets it. I’m crazy. No new revelations there. I sit on the bed with the knife and stare at the door while he takes his turn. If someone were to walk into the room right now, I’d be useless—knife or not. I feel like my body is here, but the rest of me is down a deep hole. I can’t reconcile the two.

Isaac takes an even shorter shower than I do. I wake up a little when he gets out. He walks out in a towel and heads to the wardrobe. I see him looking at the clothes the same way I did. He doesn’t say anything, but he rubs the cotton of a black shirt between his thumb and forefinger. I shiver. Even if this did have something to do with one of my fans, why Isaac? I stare at the knife while he gets dressed in the bathroom. It’s brand new; the blade shiny spotless. Bought just for us, I think.

For lack of anything better to do we go back downstairs to wait. Isaac heats up two cans of soup and puts some frozen rolls in the oven. I am actually hungry when he hands me the bowl.

“It’s still light outside. It should be dark by now.”

He looks down at his food, purposefully avoiding my eyes.

“Why Isaac?”

Still, he doesn’t look at me.

“Do you think we’re in Alaska? How they hell did they get across the Canadian border with us?”

I get up and pace the kitchen.

“Isaac?”

“I don’t know, Senna.” His voice is terse. I stop pacing and look at him. He keeps his head bent toward his food, but lifts his eyes to my face. Finally, he sighs and sets his spoon down. He spins it slowly counter clockwise until it’s come full circle.

“It’s possible we’re in Alaska,” he says. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll stay up and keep watch.”

I nod. I’m not tired. Or maybe I am. I lie down on the couch and curl my legs up to my chest. I am so afraid.

Chapter Five

No one comes. Not for two days, then three. Isaac and I barely speak. We eat, we shower, we move from room to room like restless shadows. As soon as we walk into a room, our eyes go to the spot where we’ve hidden the knives. Will we need to use them? How soon? Who will live and who will die? It’s the worst form of torture a person can imagine—the wait to die. I see the not knowing in the dark circles that have developed around Isaac’s eyes. He sleeps less than I do. I know I can’t look any different; it’s eating at us.

Fear

Fear

Fear

We quench our worry with futile trying; trying to break the windows, trying to open the front door, trying to not lose our minds. We are so exhausted from trying that we stare at things … for hours at a time: a drawing of two sparrows that hangs in the living room, the bright red toaster, the keypad at the front door which is the portal to our freedom. Isaac stares at the snow more than anything else. He stands at the sink and looks out the window where it falls slowly.

On day four I am so tired of staring at things that I ask Isaac about his wife. I notice that his wedding ring is missing, and I wonder if he took it off, or if they did. Almost instinctively his fingers reach for the ghost of the ring. ‘They’ took it off, I think.

We are sitting at the kitchen table, our breakfast of oatmeal recently consumed. My nails—bitten down to the quick—are stinging. He’s just commented on how large and awkward the table is: a big, round block of wood supported by a circular base thicker than two tree trunks.

Initially he looks alarmed that I’ve asked. Then something breaks open in his eyes. He doesn’t have time to hide it. I see every last speck of emotion, and it hurts me.

“She’s an oncologist,” he says. I nod, my mouth dry. That’s a good fit for him.

“What’s her name?”

I already know her name.

“Daphne” he says. Daphne Akela. “We’ve been married for two years. You met her once.”

Yes, I remember.

He scratches his head, right above his ear, then smooths what he’s disturbed with the heel of his hand.

“What would Daphne be doing right now … with you missing?” I ask, folding my legs underneath me.

He clears his throat. “She’s a mess, Senna.”

It’s a matter-of-fact statement with an obvious answer. I don’t know why I asked, except to be cruel. No one is looking for me, except maybe the media. Bestselling Author Vanishes. Isaac has people. People who love him.

“What about you?” he says, turning it on me. “Are you married?”

I tug on my grey, wind it around my finger, slide it behind my ear.

“Do you really need to ask me that?”

He laughs coldly. “No, I suppose not. Were you seeing anyone?”

“Nope.”

He folds in his lips, nods. He knows me, too … sort of. “What happened to—”

I cut him off. “I haven’t spoken to him in a long time.”

“Even after you wrote the book?”

I put my crusty oatmeal spoon in my mouth and suck off the hardened oats. “Even after the book,” I say, not meeting his eyes. I want to ask if he read it, but I’m too chicken.

“He probably has a Daphne, too, by now. You’re not human unless you pair off with someone, right? Find your soulmate or the love of your life—or whatever.” I wave it away like I don’t care.

“People have a need to feel connected to someone else,” Isaac says. “There is nothing wrong with that. There is also nothing wrong with being too burned to stay away from it.”

My head jerks up. What? Does he think he’s the soul whisperer?

“I don’t need anyone,” I assure him.

“I know.”

“No you don’t,” I insist.

I feel bad for snapping at him, especially since I initiated the conversation. But I don’t like what he’s insinuating—that he knows me or something.

Isaac looks down at his empty bowl. “You’re so self-assured, sometimes I forget to check on you. Are you okay, Senna? Have you been—”

I cut him off. “I’ve been fine, Isaac. Let’s not go there.” I stand up. “I’m going to mess with the keypad.”

I can feel his eyes on me as I leave. I stand at the door and start pressing random number combinations. We have been taking turns trying to guess the four-digit code, a pretty stupid idea since there are ten thousand possible combinations, except there is nothing else to do, so why not? Isaac found a pen and we write the codes we try on the wall next to the door so we don’t use repeats.

We have hidden knives in every room of the house: a steak knife under each mattress, a serrated knife the length of my forearm underneath the couch cushions in the little living room, a butcher knife in the bathroom under the sink, a carving knife in the upstairs hallway on the windowsill. We have to find a better place for the upstairs hallway knife, I keep thinking. Anyone can grab it. Anyone. Grab … it…

My finger is suspended over the button that reads 5. I can feel my chest constricting slowly, like there is an invisible boa constrictor giving me a snake hug. My breath is coming quickly, too quickly. I turn until my back is against the door and slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I can’t catch my breath. I am drowning in a sea of air; it is all around me but I can’t get enough of it into my lungs to live.

Isaac must hear my wheezing. He shoots around the corner and crouches in front of me.

“Senna … Senna! Look at me!” I find his face, try to focus on his eyes. If I can only catch my breath…

He takes my hand, his voice imploring me. “Senna, breathe. Nice and slow. Can you hear my voice? Try to match your breathing to my voice.”

I try. His voice is distinct. I could pick it out in a lineup of voices. It’s an octave above an alto. Deep enough to lull you to sleep, lilting enough to keep you awake. I follow the patterns of his speech as he speaks to me—the dragged out consonants, the slight rasp over his “e’s”. I watch his mouth. His incisors slightly overlap his front two teeth, which also overlap; a perfectly imperfect flaw. Gradually, my breathing slows. I focus on his hands, which are holding mine. Surgeon’s hands. The best hands to be in. I trace the veins that run along the backs of them. His thumbs are rubbing circles on the skin between my thumb and forefinger. He has square nails. Manly. So many of the men I’ve dated have had oval nail beds. Square is better. I feel my lungs open. I take in air hungrily. He’s helping me. Square is better, I say over and over again. It is my mantra. Square is better.

I am exhausted. Isaac doesn’t skip a beat. He picks me up and carries me to the sofa. He’s good at taking care of people. He takes care of you without you having to ask. He disappears into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with a glass of water.

I take it from him. “He knew to buy the exact clothes sizes that we wear, but he didn’t know I have asthma?”

Isaac frowns. “Have you checked in all of the cabinets for an inhaler?”

“Yes. The first day.”

He looks at the floor between his feet.

“Maybe he didn’t want you to have an inhaler.”

I grunt. “So, this sicko kidnaps me and brings me out here to die of an asthma attack? Anti-climactic.”

“I don’t know,” he says. It’s hard for a doctor to say those words. He told me that once. Doctors were supposed to have the answers. “None of this makes sense,” he says. “Why someone would take me … put me here with you. How did they even make the connection between us?”

I don’t know the answers to any of this. I turn my head away. Look at the picture of the sparrows.

“You need to take it easy. Be—”

I cut him off.

“I’m okay, Isaac.” I place a hand on his arm and immediately pull it away. He looks at the spot where I touched him, then stands up and walks out of the room. I press everything together—my eyes, my palms, my lips, the hole inside of me that will never be sewn back together.

“Isaac,” I breathe. But he doesn’t hear me.

Chapter Six

I start sleeping in the room with the trapdoor after the first week. It’s warmer up there. Isaac makes me lock it as soon as my feet disappear up the ladder. “Just in case,” he says. “They have a key too, but it will buy you time.” Sure. Great.

He checks it after I turn the key, to make sure no one can get in. I always wait for the rattle before I move to the bed. I sleep with a butcher knife in my hand. Dangerous, but not as dangerous as your kidnapper coming into the prison he made for you and…

Every morning I wake up and feel fear, though I am never sure when it’s morning or night or midday. The sun shines continuously. I am always afraid that when I climb down the ladder Isaac won’t be there. He always is—ruffled and gaunt standing by the coffee machine. There is always fresh coffee in the pot when I come down. I can smell it as I descend the stairs. I always know Isaac is fine, and alive, and still there from the smell of the coffee. One morning when I climb down the ladder I don’t smell it. I run for the stairs almost breaking my neck as I jump down in twos. When I get to the kitchen I find him asleep at the table, his head resting on his arms. I make the coffee that day. My hands are steady, but my heart won’t stop racing.

One day (evening?), Isaac climbs up the ladder and lowers himself next to where I am sitting, cross-legged in front of the fire. I have been thinking about suicide. Not my own, just suicide. There are so many ways. I don’t know why people are so uncreative when they kill themselves.

We usually don’t leave the front door unguarded, but I can tell he wants to talk. I unfold my legs and stretch them toward the fire, wiggling my toes. We are running out of firewood, and Isaac says he’s not sure how big the generator is, but we could be running out of fuel in that too.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, watching his face.

“The carousel room, Senna. I think it means something.”

“I don’t want to talk about the carousel room. It freaks me out.”

His head snaps sharply toward me. “We’re gonna talk about it. Unless you’d like to stay locked up here forever.”

I shake my head, twist my skunk streak around my finger. “It’s a coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything.”

He pulls his lips back from his teeth and his head rocks from side to side. “Daphne is pregnant.”

It’s that silent moment when you hear the rushing of water in your eyes. My eyes jerk to his face.

“Eight weeks the last time I saw her.” He licks his lips and turns to look at me. “We did three rounds of in vitro to get pregnant, had two miscarriages.” He rubs his forehead. “Daphne is pregnant and I need to talk about the carousel room.”

I nod dumbly.

I feel something. I push it away. Bury it.

“Who knows about what happened?” he asks, gently. I watch the fire eat the logs. For a minute I’m not sure which instance he’s referring to. There were so many. The carousel, I remind myself. It’s such a strange memory. Nothing fancy. But private.

“Only you. That’s why it seems unlikely…” I look at him. “Did you—?”

“No … no, Senna, never. That was our moment. I didn’t even want to think about it after.”

I believe him. For a long second our eyes are locked and the past seems to float between us—a frail soap bubble. I break eye contact first, looking down at my socks. Patterned socks, not white. I searched for white, but all that was stocked for me were knee length patterned socks. A deviation from my character. I wear my new, colorful socks over my tights. Today, they are purple and grey. Diagonal stripes.

“Senna…?”

“Yes, sorry. I was thinking about my socks.”

He laughs through his nose, like he’d rather not laugh. I’d rather he not laugh, too.

“Isaac, what happened on the carousel was … personal. I don’t tell people things. You know that.”

“Okay, let’s forget how this … this … person knows. Let’s assume he does. Maybe it’s a clue.”

“A clue?” I say in disbelief. “To what? Our freedom? Like this is a game?”

Isaac nods. I study his face, look for a joke. But, there are no jokes in this house. There are just two stolen people, clutching knives as they sleep.

“And they call me the fiction writer,” I say it to make him angry, because I know he’s right.

I make to stand up, but he grabs my wrist and gently pulls me back down. His eyes travel across the span of my nose and my cheeks. He’s looking at my freckles. He always did that, like they were works of art rather than screwed up pigment. Isaac doesn’t have freckles. He has soft eyes that dip down at the outer corners and two front teeth that overlap slightly. He’s average looking and beautiful at the same time. If you look close enough, you see how intense his features are. Each one speaks to you in a different way. Or maybe I’m just a writer.

“We are not here for ransom,” he insists. “They want something from us.”

“Like what?” I sound like a petulant child. I lift the back of my hand to my lips and bite the skin on my knuckles. “No one wants anything from me—except more stories, maybe.”

Isaac raises his eyebrows. I think of Annie Wilkes and her rooty-patooties. No way.

“They didn’t leave me a typewriter,” I point out. “Or even a pen and paper. This isn’t about my writing.”

He doesn’t look convinced. I’d rather steer him toward the carousel, especially if it mean he’ll stops looking at me like I have the magical key to get out of here.

“The carousel is creepy,” I say. That’s all it takes to get his theory fuel going. I half listen to his surmisings—no, I don’t listen at all. I pretend to listen and count the knots in the wood walls instead. Eventually, I hear my name.

“Tell me how you remember it,” he urges me.

I shake my head. “No. What good will that do?”

I am not in the mood to revisit those instances of my life. They trudge up the other stuff. The stuff that landed me in the plushy couch of a therapist.

“Fine.” He stands up this time. “I’m going to make dinner. If you’re staying up here, lock the trapdoor.”

This time he doesn’t stay to check if I do. He’s all over the place. I hate him.

We eat in silence. He defrosted hamburgers and opened a can of green beans. He’s rationing our food. I can tell. I push the beans around and eat hamburger by using the side of my fork to cut it into pieces. Isaac eats with a knife and a fork, slicing with one, spearing with the other. I asked him about it once, and he said, “There are tools for everything. I am a doctor. I use the right tool for the right purpose.”

He is aggravated with me. I shoot him a look every few bites, but his eyes are on his food. When I am finished, I stand up and take my plate to the sink. I wash and dry it. Put it back in the cabinet. I stand behind him as he finishes up his meal, and watch the back of his head. I can see grey in his hair, it’s mostly at his temples. Just a little bit. The last time I saw him there had been no grey. Maybe in vitro put it there. Or his wife. Or surgery. I was born with mine, so who knows? When he pushes back from the table, I turn around quickly and busy myself with wiping the counter. Three wipes in and the chore seems foolish. I’m cleaning my captor’s house. It feels a little like betrayal: live in filth or clean your prison. I should burn it to the ground. I finish wiping, rinse the rag, fold it neatly and hang it over the faucet. Before I go back upstairs, I grab an armful of wood from the wood closet. We all but collide at the foot of the stairs.

“Let me carry it for you.”

I cling to my wood.

“Don’t you have to stay to guard the door?”

“No one is coming, Senna.” He looks almost sad. He tries to take the wood from me. I yank my arms out of reach.

“You don’t know that,” I retort. He looks at my freckles.

“Hush,” he says, softly. “They would have come by now. It’s been fourteen days.”

I shake my head. “It hasn’t been that long…” I mentally do the calculations. We’ve been here for … fourteen days. He’s right. Fourteen. My God. Where are the search parties? Where are the police? Where are we? But, most importantly, where is the person who brought us here? I yield my wood. Isaac half smiles at me. I follow him up the stairs and climb the ladder to the attic room so he can hand me the logs.

“Night, Senna.”

I look at the bright sun streaming into the window behind me.

“Morning, Isaac.”

Chapter Seven

We are nowhere.

Isaac is losing it. Most days he paces in front of the kitchen window for hours, his eyes on the snow like it’s speaking to him. It looks like he’s seeing something, but there is nothing to see—only mounds of white in the middle of white, spread out over white, covered in white. We are nowhere and snow doesn’t speak. I hide from him up in my attic bedroom, and sometimes when I’m tired of that I lie on the floor in the carousel room and stare at the horses. He doesn’t come in here, says it creeps him out. I try to hum songs, because that’s what one of my characters would do, but it makes me feel nutty.

No matter where I am, I can feel him pulsing through the walls. He’s always been intense. That’s what makes him a good doctor. He’s trying to figure out why we are here, why no one has come. I should, too, I guess, but I can’t focus. Every time I start wondering why someone would do this my head starts throbbing. If I press at my thoughts I will implode. Like a grapefruit in the microwave, I think.

When we are in the same room his eyes press on me. They press like fingers into my flesh—harder and harder until I pull away, run to my trapdoor and hide. He doesn’t come up to my room anymore. He started sleeping in the room where I found him tied up, instead of on the couch. It happened after the six-week mark. He just moved in there one night and stopped guarding the door.

“What are you doing?” I said, following him to the bed. He pulled off his shirt and I quickly averted my eyes.

“Going to bed.”

I watched in bewilderment as he tossed his shirt aside.

“What if … what about…?”

“No one is coming,” he said, ripping the sheets aside and climbing in. He wouldn’t look at me. I wondered what he didn’t want me to see in his eyes.

I hadn’t argued with him. I’d carried my blankets and my knife downstairs and sat on the sofa, my eyes on the door. Isaac may be letting his guard down, but I wasn’t going to. I wasn’t going to trust my prison. I sure as hell wasn’t going to accept this as permanent. I brewed a pot of coffee, grabbed some beef jerky and took watch. When he’d come downstairs the next morning, and found me still awake, he’d acted surprised. He brought me a fresh cup of coffee and some oatmeal, then sent me off to bed.

“Good morning, Isaac.”

“Good night, Senna.”

I hadn’t slept. I could go ungodly amounts of time without sleep. Instead, I’d pulled a chair to the window that sat directly above the kitchen and watched the snow with him.

Now, a week later, I wake up with clarity as sharp and cold as the snow outside my window. Sometimes, when I am writing a book, I’ll go to sleep with a plot hole in my story that I don’t know how to fix. When I wake up, I know. It’s as if it were there all along and I just needed the right sleep to access the answer.

I am on my feet in an instant, running to the trapdoor barefoot and dropping from the ladder before I reach the last rung. I take the stairs two at a time and come to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen. Isaac is sitting at the table, his head in his hands. His hair is spiked up like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. I eye his knee bouncing beneath the table at jackrabbit speed. He’s going through a kidnapped version of the seven stages of grief. By the look of his bloodshot eyes, I’d say he was well into Acceptance.

“Isaac.”

He looks up. Despite my need to know what he is feeling, I avert my eyes. I lost my privilege to his thoughts long ago. My feet are freezing, I wish I’d put on socks. I walk to the window, and point at the snow.

“The windows in this house,” I say, “they all face the same direction.”

The fog in his eyes seems to clear a little. He pushes back from the table and comes to stand beside me.

“Yeah…” he says. Of course he knew that too. Just because I was in a haze didn’t mean that he was.

He has more hair on his face than I have ever seen on him. I direct my eyes away from him, and we look at the snow together. We are so close I could extend a pinkie and touch his hand.

“What’s behind the house?” he asks.

There is some silence between us before I say, “The generator…”

“Do you think…?”

“Yeah, I do.”

We look at each other. I have goose pimples along my arms.

“He can refuel it,” I say. “I think that as long as we stay put, he will refill the generator. If we figure out the code and get out, we will lose power and freeze.”

He thinks long and hard about this. It sounds right. To me, at least.

“Why?” asks Isaac. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s in the Bible,” I say, and then automatically flinch.

“You’re going to have to break this one down for me, Senna,” he says, frowning. His voice is terse. He’s losing patience with me, which isn’t really fair since we are both sinking in the same ship.

“Have you seen the picture hanging next to the door?” He nods. Of course. How could he miss it? There are seven prints hanging on the walls of this house. When you spend six weeks locked up somewhere, you spend a lot of time examining the art on the walls.

“It’s a painting by F. Cayley. It’s supposed to be of Adam and Eve when they find out they have to leave Eden.”

He shakes his head. “I thought it was just of two very depressed people on the beach.”

I smile.

“We are like the first two people,” I say.

“Adam and Eve?” He’s already so full of disbelief I don’t even want to tell him the rest.

I shrug. “Sure.”

“Go on,” he says.

“God put them in the garden and told them not to eat the forbidden fruit, remember?”

Now it’s Isaac’s turn to shrug. “Yeah, I guess. Sunday school one-o- one.”

“Once they were tempted and ate the fruit they were on their own, exiled from God’s provision and his protection in the place he created for them.” When Isaac doesn’t say anything, I go on. “They leave perfection and have to fend for themselves—hunt, garden, experience cold and death and childbirth.”

I flush after the last word leaves my mouth. It was dumb of me to mention childbirth considering Daphne and their unborn baby. But Isaac doesn’t skip a beat.

“So you’re saying,” he says, crinkling his eyebrows together, “that so long as we stay here—in the place our kidnapper provided for us—we will be safe and he will keep the heat and food coming?”

“It’s just a wild guess, Isaac. I don’t really know.”

“So what’s the forbidden fruit?”

I tap my finger on the tabletop. “The keypad, maybe…”

“This is sick,” he says. “And if one painting means that much, what else is hidden in here?”

I don’t want to think about it. “I’ll make dinner tonight,” I say.

I look out the window as I peel potatoes over the sink. And then I look down at the peelings, all piled up and gross looking. We should eat those. We will probably be starving soon, wishing we had a sliver of potato skin. I scoop up shreds and hold them in my palm, not sure what to do with them. I counted the potatoes before I chose four of the smallest ones out of the fifty-pound bag. Seventy potatoes. How long could we stretch that? And the flour, and rice and oatmeal? It seemed like a lot, but we had no idea how long we’d be imprisoned here. Imprisoned. Here.

I eat the skins. At least they won’t go to waste that way.

God. I am grimacing and gagging on my potato skin when I drop the potato I’m holding into the sink and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. I have to focus. Stay positive. I can’t let myself sink into that dark place. My therapist tried to teach me techniques to cope with emotional overload. Why hadn’t I listened? I remember something about a garden … walking through it and touching flowers. Was that what she’d said? I try to picture the garden now, but all I see are the shadows that the trees make and the possibility that someone is hiding behind a hedge. I am so fucked up.

“Need help?”

I look over my shoulder and see Isaac. I’d sent him upstairs to take a nap. He looks rested. Surgeons are used to the lack of sleep. He’s taken a shower and his hair is still wet.

“Sure.” I point to the remaining potato and he picks up a knife.

“Feels like old times,” I half smile. “Except I’m not catatonic and you don’t have that perpetually worried look on your face.”

“Don’t I? This situation is kind of dire.”

I put my knife down. “No, actually. You look calm. Why is that?”

“Acceptance. Embrace the suck.”

“Really?”

I feel his smile. Across the two feet of air between us and a sink speckled with new potato skins. For a minute my chest constricts, then the peeling is done and he moves away, taking his soap smell with him.

I have a need to know where a person is in a room at all times. I hear him in the fridge, he crosses the room, sits down at the table. By the noises he’s making I can tell that he has two glasses and a bottle of something. I wash my hands and turn away from the sink.

He is sitting at the table with a bottle of whiskey in his hands.

My mouth drops open. “Where did you find that?”

He grins. “Back of the pantry behind a container of croutons.”

“I hate croutons.”

He nods like I’ve said something profound.

We take our first shot as the meat is simmering in the skillet. I think it’s deer. Isaac says it’s cow. It really doesn’t matter since this sort of situation steals most of your appetite. We don’t really taste anything—deer or cow.

We both pretend that the drinking is fun instead of a necessity to cope. We click glasses and avoid eye contact. It feels like a game; click your glass, shoot whiskey, stare at the wall with a stiff smile. We eat our meal in near silence, faces hanging like limp sunflowers over our plates. So much for fun. We are coping willy-nilly. Tonight it’s with whiskey. Tomorrow it might be with sleep.

When we are finished, Isaac clears the table and washes our plates. I stay where I am, stretching my arm across the wood and resting my head on the table to watch him. My head is spinning from the whiskey and my eyes are watering. Not watering. Crying. You’re not crying, Senna. You don’t know how.

“Senna?” Isaac dries his hands on a dishtowel and straddles the bench to face me. “You’re leaking fluid otherwise known as tears. Are you aware of this?”

I sniff pathetically. “I just hate croutons so much…”

He clears his throat and squashes a smile.

“As your doctor I’d advise you to sit up.”

I sniff and straighten myself until I am in a sort of upright slump.

We are both straddling the bench, now, facing each other. Isaac reaches out both thumbs and uses them to clear my cheeks of tears. He stops when he is cupping my face between his hands.

“It hurts me when you cry.” His voice is so earnest, so open. I can’t speak like this. Everything I say sounds sterile and robotic.

I try to look away, but he holds my face so that I can’t move. I don’t like being this close to him. He starts seeping into my pores. It tingles.

“I’m crying, but I don’t feel anything,” I assure him.

He pulls his lips into a tight line and nods.

“Yes, I know. That’s what hurts me the most.”

Chapter Eight

After the deal with the F. Cayley print, I take inventory of everything in the house. We could be missing something. I wish I had a pen, some paper, but our single Bic ran out of ink a long time ago… so I have to use my good ol’ memory for this one.

There are sixty-three books scattered throughout the house. I’ve picked up each one, flipped through the pages, touched the numbers at the top right corners. I started reading two of them—both classics that I’ve already read—but I can’t get my mind to focus. I have twenty-three light, colorful sweaters, six pairs of jeans, six pairs of sweatpants, twelve pairs of socks, eighteen shirts, twelve pairs of yoga pants. One pair of rain boots—in Isaac’s size. There are six additional pieces of artwork on the walls, other than the F. Cayley; each of the others is by the Ukranian illusionist, Oleg Shuplyak. In the living room is “Sparrows” one of his milder pieces. But scattered across the rest of the house are the blurred faces of famous historical figures, blended almost indecipherably with landscapes. The one in the attic room disturbs me the most. I’ve tried to pry it from the wall with a butter knife, but it’s cemented so firmly I can’t get it to budge. It depicts a hooded man, his outstretched arms wielding two scythes. His mouth gapes and his eyes are two dark, empty holes. At first all you see is the eerie emptiness—the impending violence. Then your eyes adjust and the skull comes into view: the dark sockets of eyes between the scythes, the teeth, which seconds ago were simply a pattern on a garment. My kidnapper hung death in my bedroom. The sentiment makes me sick. The rest of the prints scattered throughout the house include: Hitler and the dragon, Freud and the lake, Darwin under the bridge with the mysterious cloaked figure. My least favorite is “Winter” in which a man is riding a yak over a snow-covered village while two eyes peer coldly at me. That one feels like a message.

When I have counted everything in my closet and Isaac’s, I start counting things in the kitchen. I note the colors of the furniture and the walls. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I need to do something with my brain. When I run out of things to count, I talk to Isaac. He makes us coffee like he used to, and we sit at the table.

“Why did you want to fly away on your red bike?”

He raises his eyebrows. He’s not used to questions from me.

“I don’t know anything about you,” I say.

“You never seemed to want to.”

That stings. It’s not entirely untrue. I have that whole stay the hell away from me thing going on.

“I didn’t.”

I count the kitchen cabinets. I forgot to do that.

“Why not?” He spins his coffee cup in a circle, and lifts it to his mouth. Before he can take a sip he sets it down again.

I have to take a moment to think about that one.

“It’s just who I am.”

“Because you choose to be?”

“This conversation was supposed to be about you.”

He finally takes a sip of his coffee. Then he pushes his mug across the table to me. I’ve already finished mine. It’s a peace offering.

“My dad was a drinker. He used to rough up my mom. Not so much a unique story,” he shrugs. “What about you?”

I consider pulling my usual stunts of avoid and retreat, but I decide to surprise him instead. It gets boring always being the same.

“My mom left before I hit puberty. She was a writer. She said my dad sucked all of the life out of her, but I think suburban life did. After she left, my dad went a little crazy.”

I take a sip of Isaac’s coffee and avoid his eyes.

“What kind of crazy?”

I purse my lips. “Rules. Lots of rules. He became emotionally volatile.” I finish off his coffee and he stands up to get the whiskey. He pours us each a shot.

“You trying to keep me talking, Doctor?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tequila works better.”

He smiles. “I’ll just run down to the liquor store and grab a bottle.”

I take my shot and spill my guts. I’m not even drunk. Saphira would be so proud of me. I crinkle my nose when I think of her. What does she think about all of this? She probably thinks I dipped out of town. She was always accusing me of … what was the word she used? Running?

“Tell me something about your life with him,” Isaac urges. I purse my lips. “Hmmm … so much fuckedupness. Where should I start?”

He blinks at me.

“A week before I graduated from high school he found a chip in one of our drinking glasses. He came storming into my room, demanding to know how it got there. When I couldn’t give him an answer he refused to talk to me. For three weeks. He didn’t even come to my graduation. My dad. He can make a drinking glass feel like a teen pregnancy.”

I hold out my mug and Isaac refills me.

“I hate whiskey,” I say.

“Me too as well.”

I cock my head.

“Hush,” he says. “You don’t get to judge my turn of phrase.”

I lay my arm across the table and rest my head on it.

He looks less and less like a doctor nowadays with his scruffy face and long hair. Come to think of it, he’s acting less like one too. Maybe this is rockstar Isaac. I don’t ever remember him drinking during the time we spent together. I lift my head and rest my chin on my arm.

I want to ask if he had a drinking problem back in the day—when he was actually living his tattoo. But it’s none of my business. We all medicate with something. He notices me looking at him funny. He’s on his fifth shot.

“Something you want to ask me?”

“How many more bottles of that stuff do we have?” I ask. The one he’s holding has a third left. I’m thinking we might have some darker days. We need to save the happy juice for sadder times.

He shrugs. “What does it matter?”

“Hey,” I say. “We are sharing family memories. Bonding. Don’t be depressing.”

He laughs, and sets the bottle on the counter. I wonder if he’d notice if I hid it. I watch him walk into the living room. I’m not sure if I should follow him or give him space. In the end, I go upstairs. It’s not my business what Isaac is struggling with. I barely know him. No, that’s not entirely true. I just don’t know this side of him.

I wrap myself in my comforter and try to sleep. The whiskey has made my head spin. I like it. I’m surprised I never got addicted to alcohol. It’s such a nice way to check out. Maybe I should find a new addiction. Maybe I should find Isaac.

Maybe…

When I wake up I feel sick. I just barely make it down the ladder and into Isaac’s room. The bathroom door is closed. I don’t think twice before flinging it open and throwing myself at the toilet. Isaac opens the shower curtain just as I do. I have a moment where the vomit is halfway up my esophagus and Isaac is naked in front of me, everything stands still, then I push him aside and hurl.

It’s a terrible feeling, everything coming up from your stomach. Bulimics should get a medal. I use his toothbrush because I can’t find mine. The one thing I’m not is a germaphobe. When I walk out of the bathroom, he’s lying on the bed. Dressed, thank God.

“How come you didn’t get sick?”

He looks up at me. “I guess I’m an old pro.”

I have a fleeting thought, one where I wonder if he’s the one who brought us here. I narrow my eyes and scan my mind for motive. Then I come to my senses. Isaac has no reason for wanting to be here. There is no reason for him to be here at all.

“Do me a favor,” I say, against my better judgment. “If in your past life—the one where you tattooed emotion all over your body—you had a drinking problem, don’t drink.”

“Why do you care, Senna?”

“I don’t,” I say quickly. “But your wife and baby do.”

He looks away.

“We are going to get out of here eventually.” I sound way more sure than I actually am. “You can’t go back to them all messed up.”

“Someone left us here to die,” he says, blandly.

“Bullshit.” I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. I’m feeling queasy again. “All the food … the supplies. Someone wants us to survive.”

“Limited food. Limited supplies.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” I say. We both stopped messing with the keypad the day I spilled all that nonsense about Adam and Eve.

“Maybe we should get back to breaking out of here,” I say.

Then I run back to the bathroom and throw up.

Later as I lie in my bed, still green-faced and queasy, I decide not to try to help anymore. It’s not my forte. I want to be left alone, I should therefore leave others alone. We pick up our code breaking again, for lack of anything else to do.

To stave off boredom I try my hand at reading again. It doesn’t work; I have kidnapped ADD. I like the feel of paper beneath my fingertips. The sound a page makes when it turns over. So I don’t see the words, but I touch the pages and turn them until I’ve finished the book. Isaac sees me doing it one day, and laughs at me.

“Why don’t you just read the book?” he asks.

“I can’t focus. I want to, but I can’t.”

He comes over and takes it from my hands. The sofa yields as he sits down next to me and opens it to the first page. He’s sitting so close our legs are touching.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

I close my eyes and listen to his voice. When he reads the words, “I was destined to be unlucky in life…” my eyes shoot open. I want to say Jinx. Maybe I’ll like David Copperfield after all. This isn’t the first time Isaac’s read to me. The last time was under very different circumstances. Very different and very much the same. He reads until his voice becomes hoarse. Then I take the book from him and read until mine gives, too. We mark the spot and set it down until tomorrow.

Chapter Nine

Nothing happens for weeks. We develop a routine, if you can call it that. It’s more of a day-to-day stay sane and survive kind of thing. I call it Sanity Circulation. When you’re caged up you need somewhere to send your hours, or you start getting prickly, like when you sit in the same position for too long and your legs get pins and needles. Except when you get them in your brain, you’re pretty much on your way to the nuthouse. So we try to circulate. Or, I do at least. Isaac looks like he’s two blinks away from needing Haloperidol and a padded room. He makes coffee in the morning, that’s consistent. There is a huge sack of coffee beans in the pantry and several industrial sized cans of instant. He uses the beans, saying that when we run out of juice in the generator we can heat water for the instant over the fire. When … not if.

We drink our coffee at the table. Usually in silence, but sometimes Isaac talks to fill the space. I like those days. He tells me about cases that he’s had … difficult surgeries, the patients who lived and ones who didn’t. We eat breakfast after that: oatmeal or powdered eggs. Sometimes crackers with jam spread on them. Then we part ways for a few hours. I go up, he stays down. Usually I use that time to shower and sit in the carousel room. I don’t know why I sit in there except to focus on the bizarre. We switch after that. He comes up to take his shower and I go down to sit for a while in the living room. That’s when I pretend to read the books. We meet up in the kitchen for lunch. We know it’s lunch by our hunger, not by the position of the sun, or by a clock. Tick-tock, tick- tock.

Lunch is canned soup or baked beans cooked with hot dogs. Sometimes he defrosts a loaf of bread and we eat that with butter. I clean the dishes. He watches the snow. We drink more coffee, then I go to the attic room to sleep. I don’t know what he does during that time, but when I come downstairs again he’s restless. He wants to talk. I climb up and down the stairs for exercise. Every other day I jog around the house and do sit-ups and push-ups until I feel as if I can’t move. There are a lot of hours between lunch and dinner. Mostly we just wander around from room to room. Dinner is the big event. Isaac makes three things: meat, vegetable and starch. I look forward to his dinners, not just because of the food, but the entertainment as well. I come downstairs early and perch myself on the tablet to watch him cook. Once I asked him to verbalize everything he was doing so I could pretend I was watching a cooking show. He did, only he changed his voice and his accent and spoke in the third person.

Isseeec veel sautee zees undetermined meat over ze stove veeth butter and….

Every few days when the mood is lighter I request a different Isaac cook me dinner. My favorite being Rocky Balboa, in which Isaac calls me Adrian and mimics Sylvester Stallone’s awful attempt at a Philly accent. Those are the better nights—little slivers in between the very bad ones. On the bad ones we don’t speak at all. On those days the snow is louder than the kidnapped houseguests.

Sometimes I hate him. When he does the dishes, he shakes off each one before setting it in the drying rack. Water flies everywhere. A couple of drops always hit me in the face. I have to leave the room to avoid smashing a plate against his head. He hums in the shower. I can hear him from all the way downstairs, mostly AC/DC and Journey. He wears mismatched socks. He squints his eyes when he reads and then insists that there is nothing wrong with his eyesight. He closes the lid of the toilet. He looks at me funny. Like, really funny. Sometimes I catch him doing it and he doesn’t even bother to look away. It makes my face and neck get this tingly burn feeling. He barely makes any noise when he moves. He sneaks up on me all the time. When you’ve been kidnapped it’s never a good idea to be too quiet when entering a room. He’s received countless elbows in the ribs and loose-handed slaps as a result.

“Is there anything I do that irritates you?” I ask him one day. We are both in irritable moods. He’s been lurking; I’ve been stalking. We bump into each other as I come from the kitchen and he comes from the little living room. We stand in limbo in the space between the two rooms.

“I hate it when you go comatose.”

“I haven’t done that in a while,” I point out. “Four days at least. Give me something more tangible.”

He looks up at the ceiling. “I hate it when you watch me eat.”

“Gah!” I throw my hands up in the air—which is completely unlike me. Isaac snickers.

“You eat with too many rules,” I tell him. There is humor in my voice. Even I can hear it. He narrows his eyes like something is bothering him, then he seems to shake it off.

“When I met you, you didn’t listen to music with words, “ he says, folding his arms across his chest.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Why don’t we discuss this over a snack.” He points to the kitchen. I nod but don’t move. He takes a step forward, placing us impossibly close. I step back twice, allowing him room to move into the kitchen. He sets crackers on a plate with some beef jerky and dried bananas and puts it between us. He makes a show out of eating a cracker, hiding his mouth behind his hand in mock embarrassment.

“You live by rules. Mine are just more socially appropriate than yours,” he says.

I snicker.

“I’m trying really hard not to watch you eat,” I tell him.

“I know. Thanks for making the effort.”

I pick up a piece of banana. “Open your mouth,” I say. He does without question. I toss the banana at his mouth. It hits his nose, but I lift my hands in triumph.

“Why are you celebrating?” He laughs. “You missed.”

“No. I was aiming for your nose.”

“My turn.”

I nod and open my mouth, tilting my head forward instead of back so I can make it harder for him.

The banana lands directly on my tongue. I chew it sulkily.

“You’re a surgeon. Your aim is impeccable.”

He shrugs.

“I can beat you,” I say, “at something. I know I can.”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

“You imply it with your eyes,” I wail. I chew on the inside of my cheek while I try to cook something up. “Wait here.”

I sprint up the stairs. There is a metal chest in the carousel room at the foot of the bed. I found games in there earlier, a couple of puzzles, even some books on human anatomy and how to survive in the wild. I rifle through its contents and pull out two puzzles. Each one has a thousand pieces. One depicts two deer on a cliff. The other is a “Where’s Waldo at the Zoo.” I carry them downstairs and toss them on the table. “Puzzle race,” I say. Isaac looks a little taken back.

“Seriously?” he asks. “You want to play a game?”

“Seriously. And it’s a puzzle, not a game.”

He leans back and stretches his arms over his head while he considers this. “We stop at the same time for bathroom breaks,” he says firmly. “And I get the deer.”

I extend my hand and we shake on it.

Ten minutes later we are sitting across from each other at the table. It is so large in circumference that there is plenty of room for both of us to spread out with our respective thousand pieces. Isaac sets two mugs of coffee between us before we start.

“We need some rules,” he announces. I slide my mug over and hook a finger in the handle. “Like what kind?”

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

My face actually feels stiff when I smile. Other than my manic laughing the first day we woke up here, it’s probably the first time my face has moved in the upward direction.

“Those there are the laziest muscles on your body,” Isaac announces when he sees it. He slides into his chair. “I think I’ve seen you smile one other time. Ever.”

It feels awkward to even have it on my face, so I let it drop to sip the coffee.

“That’s not true.” But I know it is.

“Okay, the rules,” he says. “We take a shot every half hour.”

“A shot of liquor?”

He nods.

“NO!” I protest. “We’ll never be able to do this if we are drunk!”

“It levels the playing field,” he says. “Don’t think I don’t know about your puzzle love.”

“What are you talking about?” I drag a piece of my puzzle around the table with my fingertip. I make figure eights with it—big ones then small ones. How could he possibly know something like that? I try to remember if I had puzzles in my house when…

“I read your book,” he says.

I flush. Oh yeah. “That was just a character...”

“No,” he says, watching the path my puzzle piece is making. “That was you.”

I glance at him from beneath my lashes. I don’t have the energy to argue, and I’m not sure I can make a compelling argument anyway. Guilty, I think. Of telling too much truth. I think about the last time we took shots and my stomach rolls. If I get a hangover I’ll sleep through most of the following day and be too sick to eat. That saves food and kills at least twelve boring hours. “I’m in,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

I pick up the piece underneath my fingertip. I can make out colorful pant legs and a tiny bulldog on a red leash. I set it back down, pick up another, roll it between my fingertips. I’m bothered by what he said, but I also just found Waldo. I set him underneath my coffee mug for safekeeping.

“I’m an artist, Senna. I know what it is to put yourself into what you create.”

“What are you talking about?” I fake confusion.

Isaac already has a small corner put together. I watch his hand travel over the pieces until he plucks up another. He’s getting a good head start on me. He has at least twenty pieces. I’ll wait.

“Stop it,” he says. “We’re being fun and open tonight.”

I sigh. “It’s not fun to be open.” And then, “I was more honest in that book than I was in any of the others.”

Isaac hooks another piece onto his growing continent. “I know.”

I let spit pool in my mouth until I have enough of it to hang a really good lugie, then swallow it all at once. He’d read my books. I should have known. He’s at thirty pieces now. I tap my fingers on the table.

“I don’t know that side of you,” I say. “The artist.” I collect more spit. Swirl it, push it between my teeth. Swallow.

He smirks. “Doctor Asterholder. That’s who you know.”

This conversation is pricking where it hurts. I am remembering things; the night he took off his shirt and showed me what was painted on his skin. The strange way his eyes burned. That was my peek down the rabbit hole. The other Isaac, like the other mother in Coraline. He’s at thirty- three pieces. He’s pretty good.

“Maybe that’s why you’re here,” he says, without looking up. “Because you were honest.”

I wait awhile before I say-”What do you mean?”

Fifty

“I saw the hype around your book. I remember walking into the hospital and seeing people reading it in waiting rooms. I even saw someone reading it at the grocery store once. Pushing her cart and reading like she couldn’t put it down. I was proud of you.”

I don’t know how I feel about him being proud of me. He barely knows me. It feels condescending, but then it doesn’t. Isaac isn’t really a condescending guy. He’s equal parts humble and slightly awkward about receiving praise. I saw it in the hospital. As soon as anyone started saying good things about him, his eyes would get shifty and he’d look for an escape route. He was all clickety-clack, don’t look back.

Sixty two pieces.

“So how did that get me here?”

“Thirty minutes,” he says.

“What?”

“It’s been thirty minutes. Time for a shot.”

He stands up and opens the cabinet where we keep the liquor. We keep finding hidden bottles. The rum was in a Ziploc bag in the sack of rice.

“Whiskey or rum?”

“Rum,” I say. “I’m sick of whiskey.”

He grabs two clean coffee mugs and pours our shots. I drink mine before he’s even had time to pick up his mug. I smack my lips together as it rolls down my throat. At least it’s not the cheap stuff.

“Well?” I demand. “How did it get me here?”

“I don’t know,” he finally says. He finds the piece he’s looking for and joins it to the ear of his deer. “But I’d be stupid to think this wasn’t a fan. It’s that or there is one other option.”

His voice drops off and I know what he’s thinking.

“I don’t think it was him,” I rush. I pour myself a voluntary shot.

I don’t have much of an alcohol tolerance and I haven’t eaten anything today. My head does a little flipsy doosey as the alcohol runs down my throat. I watch his fingers slide, clip into place, slide, search, slide…

100 pieces.

I pick up my first piece, the one with the bulldog.

“You know,” Isaac says. “My bike never did grow wings.”

The rum has curbed my vinegar and loosened the muscles in my face. I fold my features into a version of shock mock and Isaac cracks up.

“No, I don’t suppose it did. Birds are the only things that grow wings. We’re just left to muck through the mire like a bunch of emotional cave men.”

“Not if you have someone to carry you.”

No one wants to carry someone when they’re heavy from life. I read a book about that once. A bunch of drivel about two people who kept coming back to each other. The lead male says that to the girl he keeps letting get away. I had to put the book down. No one wants to carry someone when they’re heavy from life. It’s a concept smart authors feed to their readers. It’s slow poison; you make them believe it’s real, and it keeps them coming back for more. Love is cocaine. And I know this because I had a brief and exciting relationship with blow. It kept my knife-to-skin addiction at bay for a little while. And then I woke up one day and decided I was pathetic—sucking powder up my nose to deal with my mommy issues. I’d rather bleed her out than suck her in. So I went back to cutting. Anyway … love and coke. The consequences for both are expensive: you get a mighty fine high, then you come barreling down, regretting every hour you spent reveling in something so dangerous. But you go back for more. You always go back for more. Unless you’re me. Then you lock yourself away and write stories about it. Boo-hoo. Boo fucking hoo.

“Humans weren’t made to carry someone else’s weight. We can barely lift our own.” Even as I say it, I don’t entirely believe it. I’ve seen Isaac do things that most wouldn’t. But that’s just Isaac.

“Maybe lifting someone else’s weight makes yours a little more bearable,” he says.

We catch eyes at the same time. I look away first. What can you say to that? It’s romantic and foolish, and I don’t have the heart to argue. It would have been kinder if someone had broken Isaac Asterholder’s heart at some point. Being stuck on love was a real bitch to cure. Like cancer, I think. Just when you think you’re over it, it comes back.

We take another shot right before I snap my last piece of the puzzle into place. It’s the Waldo piece from underneath my coffee cup. Isaac is only half finished. His mouth gapes when he sees.

“What?” I say. “I gave you a good head start.” I get up to go take my shower.

“You’re a savant,” he calls after me. “That wasn’t fair!”

I don’t hate Isaac. Not even a little bit.

Chapter Ten

The days melt. They melt into each other until I can’t remember how long we’ve been here, or if it’s supposed to be morning or night. The sun never stops with the damn light. Isaac never stops with the damn pacing. I lie still and wait.

Until it comes. Clarity, bleeding through my denial, warm against my numb brain. Warm—it’s a word I’m becoming less and less familiar with. Isaac has become increasingly worried about the generator lately. He calculates how long we’ve been here. “It’s going to run out of gas. I don’t know why it hasn’t already…”

We turned off the heat and used the wood from the closet downstairs. But now we are running out of wood. Isaac has rationed us down to four logs a day. Any day now the generator could run out of fuel. It is Isaac’s fear that we will no longer be able to get water through the faucet without the power. “We can burn things in the house for heat,” he tells me. “But once we run out of water we’re dead.”

My feet are cold, my hands are cold, my nose is cold; but right now, my brain is cooking something. I press my face into the pillow and will it away. My brain is sometimes like a rogue Rubik’s cube. It twists until it finds a pattern. I can figure out any movie, any book within five minutes of starting it. It’s almost painful. I wait for it to pass, the twisting. My mind can see the picture that Isaac has been looking for. While he, no doubt, paces the kitchen, I get up and sit on the floor in front of my dwindling fire. The wood is hard against my legs, but wood absorbs heat and I’d rather be warm and uncomfortable than cold and cushioned. I’m trying to distract my thoughts, but they are persistent. Senna! Senna! Senna! My thoughts sound like Yul Brynner. Not girl voice, not my voice, Yul Brynner’s voice. Specifically in The Ten Commandments.

“Shut up, Yul,” I whisper.

But, he doesn’t shut up. And no wonder I didn’t see it before. The truth is more twisted than I am. If I am right, we will be home soon; Isaac with his family, me with mine. I giggle. If I am right, the door will open and we can walk to a place where there is help. All of this will be over. And it’s a good thing, too, we are down to a dozen logs. When my toes are thawed, I stand and head downstairs so that I can tell him.

He’s not in the kitchen. I stand for a moment at the sink where I usually find him looking out the window. The faucet has a drip. I watch it for a minute before turning away. The whiskey we were drinking a few nights ago is still on the counter. I screw off the cap and take a swig straight from the bottle. The lip feels warm. I wonder if Isaac was in here doing the same thing. I flinch, lick my lips and take two more deep sips. I walk boldly up the stairs, swinging my arms as I go. I’ve learned that if you move all of your limbs at once you can chase some of the cold away.

Isaac is in the carousel room. I find him sitting on the floor staring up at one of the horses. This is unusual. It’s typically my spot. I slide down the wall until I am sitting next to him and stretch my legs out in front of me. I am already feeling the effects of the whiskey, which makes this easier. “The carousel day,” I say. “Let’s talk about it.”

Isaac turns his head to look at me. Instead of avoiding his eyes, I catch and hold them. He has such a piercing gaze. Steely.

“I haven’t told anyone that story. I can’t for the life of me figure out how someone would know. That’s why this room seems more like a coincidence,” I say.

He doesn’t reply, so I carry on. “You told someone though, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

He lied to me. He told me he hadn’t told a soul. Maybe I lied, too. I can’t remember.

“Who did you tell, Isaac?”

We are breathing together, both sets of eyebrows drawn.

“My wife.”

I don’t like that word. It makes me think of frilly aprons with apple pattern and blind, submissive love.

I look away. I look instead at the death that adorns the horses’ lacquered manes. One horse is black and one is white. The black has the flared nostrils of a racehorse, its head tossed to the side, eyes wide with fear. One leg is furled up like it was mid-stride when sentenced to eternal fiberglass. It is the more striking of the two horses: the determined, angry one. I am endeared to it. Mostly because there is an arrow piercing its heart.

“Who did she tell?”

“Senna,” he says. “No one. Who would she tell that to?”

I push myself to my feet and walk barefoot to the first horse—the black one. I trace the saddle with my pinkie. It is made of bones.

I am not fond of the truth; it’s why I lie for a living. But I am looking for someone to blame.

“So, then this is a coincidence, just like I initially said.” I no longer believe that, but Isaac is withholding something from me.

“No, Senna. Have you looked at the horses—I mean really looked at them?” I spin around to face him.

“I’m looking at them right now!” Why am I shouting?

Isaac jumps up and rounds on me. When I won’t look at him he grabs my shoulders and spins me ‘til I’m facing the black horse again. He holds me firmly. “Hush and look at it, Senna.”

I flinch. I look just so he won’t say my name like that again. I see the black horse, but with new eyes: non-stubborn, just plain old Senna eyes. I see it all. I feel it all. The rain, the music, the horse whose pole had a crack in it. I can smell dirt and sardines … something else, too … cardamom and clove. I pull out of it, pull out of the memory so fast my breath stops. Isaac’s hands loosen on my shoulders. I’m disappointed; he was warm. I am free to run, but I curl my toes until I can feel them gripping carpet, and I stay. I came here to solve one of our problems. One of our many problems. These are the same horses. The very same. I trace the crack with my eyes. Yul says something about me repressing my memories. I laugh at him. Repressing my memories. That’s a Saphira Elgin thing to say. But he’s right, isn’t he? I’m in a fog and half the time I don’t even realize it.

“The date that it happened,” I say softly. “That’s what will open the door.”

The air prickles, then he runs. I hear him taking the stairs two at a time. I didn’t even have to remind him of the date. It’s cut into the fleshy part of our memories. I wait with my eyes closed; praying it works, praying it doesn’t. He comes back a minute later. Much slower this time. Plunk, plunk, plunk up the stairs. I feel him standing in the doorway looking at me. I can smell him too. I used to bury my head in his neck and breath in his smell. Oh God, I’m so cold.

“Senna,” he says, “want to come outside?”

Yes. Sure. Why not?