As soon as I woke up, I shot out of bed and checked the cat door. My heart leaped. Like Christmas morning, Santa had left me a present. I knew just what it was, but that didn’t lessen the excitement. I pulled the bag toward me, from out in the hallway, and peeked down between the handles.
The notebook cover was marbleized, silver and blue, and bound with a shiny gold spiral. I took it out. The pages were lined with gold too, all around the edges. A pen sat at the bottom of the bag. I plucked it out, checking to see if I could use the tip as a knife, or if the cap might be sharp enough to cut. But both were plastic.
I flipped the notebook open just as I heard Mason’s knock. I scurried to the wall, excited to tell him about my prize.
“I told you,” he said. “All you need to do is play by the rules, and you’ll get what you want.”
“What I really want is to go home.”
“Which is why I’m trying to bust us out of this shithole. I found something to help me, by the way.”
“What?” I asked.
“A screwdriver. It was in one of the heating ducts. Maybe a worker left it at some point. I figure I can use it to try to pick some locks, chisel through drywall, or protect myself if I need to.”
I opened my mouth to tell him about my mattress project but then fell silent. Because what would happen if Mason got caught while sneaking out? If he ever chose to save himself by telling the monster everything he knew?
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said instead. “When you first got here, was your room stocked with all of your favorite snacks?”
“My favorite snacks?”
“All of the things you like to eat, that is. Was everything handpicked, as though just for you?”
“I guess, now that you mention it. But to be honest, I’m not super selective. I mostly just eat whatever’s in front of me.”
“Okay, so how about the clothes—the ones that were in your dresser when you got here? Was it stuff you like? Brands you’d normally shop for?”
“I’m not really a brand-name kind of guy. It was just some sweats and tees, plus one zip-up sweatshirt.”
“All in your size?”
“Yeah, why? What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that he chose all of us specifically for some reason. Do you know if Samantha’s room is decked out with all her favorite things?”
“No, but I can ask.”
“Do you think he might’ve taken us for ransom?”
“Well, if that’s the case, I’m screwed. I don’t know anyone with money.”
“So maybe he chose you for a different reason.”
“Or maybe I was a spontaneous pick.”
“Why would he spontaneously pick you?”
“Because of my irresistible charm?”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not?”
“My parents would pay anything to get me back,” I told him.
“Were you guys really close?”
“We are really close.”
“Sorry. That’s what I meant.”
“My parents have Only Child Syndrome, which basically means they’re hyper-focused on every little thing I do, say, feel, or want. When I sneeze, they practically come running with tissues balled up in their hands.”
“If only you were sneezing when that asshole took you, right?”
“Right,” I admitted. “If only my mom had insisted we catch up over coffee. If only my dad had gotten up early instead of sleeping in.”
“Why did he sleep in?”
“He’d been working until midnight the night before.”
“But you said you were taken on a Sunday. Does your dad work Saturdays?”
“He’d started to.” More and more, late into the night.
“Let me guess. Does he work in a hospital? Or at a twenty-four-hour call center?”
“He works in a bank.”
“Seriously? A bank?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Doesn’t that strike you as a little weird … working until midnight at a bank? Is it a twenty-four-hour branch?”
I bit my lip, knowing it was weird. So why had I never questioned it? The long hours, even on the weekends …
“My mom took off when I was eight,” Mason said. “My dad couldn’t handle it and started drinking.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it sucked, especially on nights when my dad got completely wasted. He’d lock me in the basement to keep me out of his hair, then tell me it was all my fault.”
“Mason, that’s horrible.”
“But life goes on, right?”
“I guess…”
“It does. I’m living proof.”
“Do you know where your mom went? Or why she left in the first place?”
“Negative to both. I haven’t seen her since.”
For a fast and fleeting second, I wondered if his mother might’ve had something to do with us being taken. But that didn’t make sense either. Because why would she take me? Or Samantha? Or any of the others?
“My dad passed away a couple of years ago,” Mason said. “I tell myself he’s probably happier wherever he is. He hated life without my mom, drank himself into a pretty bitter guy. On some nights, I think he was just waiting for the time to come—to not wake up, I mean.”
“That’s so sad.”
“I know. But everything happens for a reason, right? My mom abandoning Dad and me, growing up with an alcoholic, having to drop out of school to pay bills…”
“Were there relatives that could help you?”
“If there were, I didn’t know any of them. But it hasn’t been all bad. I mean, I’ve definitely seen and learned a lot—probably more than most people my age.”
“What’s been your most valuable lesson?”
“Not taking on the role of victim. Even when life is at its suckiest, I try to find the bright side.”
“What’s the bright side of being abducted and held against your will?”
“At least I’ll have a pretty impressive story to tell in the end.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Maybe a little.” He laughed. “But this isn’t my first time being locked up. I got arrested once for stealing from a convenience store. Between that and a rocky family life, I’ve had plenty of practice at staying positive.”
“Stealing food?”
“Cash.”
“Oh.” I swallowed hard, feeling a piece of my heart crumble.
“It wasn’t anything as dramatic as what you see on TV. No one got hurt.”
“Did you have a gun?”
“No, but I pretended I did. It was really, really stupid. But my father had just died—not that that’s an excuse—and I was desperate and hungry. Anyway, I did my time. And I tried to stay optimistic. Because what’s the alternative? Giving up? Rotting away? Passing out in the snow, like my dad, and not waking up?”
“Wow,” I said, taking it all in.
“Wow, ‘What a complete menace I’m talking to on the other side of this wall’?”
“Wow, you’ve been through a lot.”
“Do you think less of me now?”
I honestly wasn’t sure what to think. Part of me felt like I’d been socked in the gut. Another part tried to imagine myself in his position, after having been abandoned by my mother, and after losing my father, after dropping out of school to find a way to make ends meet … But would I have robbed a store?
“Tough question?” he asked. “I can’t say I blame you.”
“It’s not that I think less of you. There are just more layers I’m encountering.”
“So now I’m an onion? I hope I never make you cry.”
“Okay, that’s pretty bad.”
“I know, but I couldn’t resist.”
“If you get me out of here, I’ll cry tears of joy.”
“I’m working on it.”
“And so am I. I’ve been brainstorming ideas for escape.”
“What kind of ideas?” he asked.
“What if I were sick and needed a doctor?”
“You’re not sick, though, are you?”
“No. But what if I pretended that I was? You know, like in middle school when you felt like playing hooky? Do you think that guy would open the door?”
“Maybe he’d just give you Tylenol.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay, so suppose he does open the door. Then what?”
“Then I fight back and try my best to break free.” The idea sounded laughable spoken aloud, outside the confines of my head.
“I just think he’ll know if you’re not really sick—like, he’ll be able to take your temperature. Though I guess you could put a warm cloth on your forehead or gargle with hot water…”
“Exactly, like in middle school.”
“You’d really have to play a convincing role, coughing a lot, hacking up, making yourself look groggy and weak … Do you have any soda water in your room? Maybe you could use it to douse your eyes and make them red. But he still might be able to tell that you’re faking.”
“Even if I were really sick?” Like if I got a headache or a stomachache and simply ramped up the drama.
“You’re not planning on doing something stupid, are you?”
“Stupid like what?”
“Like trying to make yourself sick.”
It was the first time the option had occurred to me—that if I’d wanted I could’ve downed a bottle of shampoo or eaten a bunch of soap bars; that maybe, despite the horrible circumstances and these equally horrible choices, I still retained a bit of power.
“Jane?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think I could handle it if you really got sick.” His voice sounded soft and splintered. “Or if you got hurt in any way…”
I pressed my forehead against the wall, wondering just how affected he’d been by his mother’s abandonment and his father’s death.
“I mean, I know we don’t even know each other well,” he continued, “but believe it or not, this time we’ve had together … it’s meant a lot to me.”
The heat of my breath bounced off the wall, smoked against my cheeks, made my face grow even warmer.
“Jane?”
“I’m not going to make myself sick.”
“Promise me?”
“I promise,” I said, glad there was something I could give him back. And just like that, my power was gone.