When Nora comes back, she brings in two bowls of chili. I can tell she’s all wound up about it because she brings in some for herself. We’re going to share a meal together—me sitting on the bed, Nora sitting in the chair beside me. She grates cheese over my bowl, as if we’re at the creepiest restaurant ever. But I play along. I try to make her happy.

“Gosh—you’ve taken care of all the details! Where did you learn to cook, Nora?”

“My mom taught me. A little bit at least. My sister taught me more after my mom died.” She says it matter-of-factly.

“Oh. I’m so sorry. About your mom.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” She looks up. “It was a while ago.”

“And you call your dad ‘Sonny,’ right?”

Nora shrugs. “I mean, I try not to call him at all.”

I don’t know where my laugh comes from, but it rises from a dark place in my heart and bubbles up to the surface. Nora looks up, surprised at my laugh, at her own joke. She grins a little sheepishly. But it counts as an actual moment of connection. She seems legitimately human in that moment.

“I don’t talk to my dad either,” I offer, reaching for any kind of connection.

Nora says simply, “I know.” I don’t ask her how. She has probably watched every single one of my videos so closely. She might know me better than most of the kids who see me in school every day.

I try again. “I can’t imagine how you feel, with your mom gone. I miss my mom so much.” It’s a clunky effort, and it lands in the space between us heavily.

Nora examines the food in front of her. She watches me while I try to maneuver the spoon and the bowl with my good hand. My napkin slips off my lap and falls to the floor. She picks it up and tucks it into my shirt—a bib for a blubbering baby.

“Do you ever feel like you’re too close to your mom?” Nora asks.

“Yeah. I do.”

She nods to herself. It feels like I’ve passed an honesty test. I don’t elaborate, though. Details feel like betrayal. I know my mom is looking for me right at this moment.

Nora sets down her fork. She picks up her glass of water, but she doesn’t drink. Instead, Nora turns it around in her hands like she’s studying it. “Before my mom died, Sonny was around. I never thought of him as distant. Strict, maybe. Quiet. But then after, he decided not to be a dad.” She states the obvious. “We’re not close.”

I try to imagine it. “How old were you?”

“Ten.”

I suck in my breath before I can stop myself from making a pity sound. But I picture Nora, younger, bewildered by the sudden absence and cold.

I remember sitting at my mom’s bedside with a bill that I’d dared open, trying to get her to understand that the company had turned off our heat. I say, “My parents split up and my mom just went to bed. For months. She was sad, not sick.” Nora nods. She knows all this. “I started using TikTok, just to feel less alone.”

Nora raises her eyebrows. “Did it work?”

“Yeah. It did. And then my mom found her way back. It took a while. But by the time she tuned into the videos and the platform, I needed help managing all the details.”

“So then she took over. You built it and she took over.” Nora’s anger flares up. She’s not mad at me, but on my behalf.

“No, that’s not how it went. The stuff that my mom does—the booking, the marketing—it doesn’t really interest me. She takes care of that now and it frees me up to dance. And to figure out filming. My mom’s not some predatory stage mom; she’s my biggest supporter.”

When Nora starts speaking, her voice sounds soft; she almost pleads with me to understand. “I’ve worked really hard—I’ve done all of this”—her voice rises as she waves her arms wildly around the room—“just to support you. You show this unrelenting concern for these people who use you, who profit off you. News flash, Shea; I actually care. I care more than anyone …”

She slams her chair back and stands over me. I can hear her breathing heavily. “I know, Nora, I know. I’m so sorry.” My words tumble and rearrange themselves, trying to form some kind of cushion between myself and Nora’s rage. I reach toward her and the handcuffs faintly clink. Both the sound and the pain make me wince. I brace myself for another tirade.

But Nora’s voice goes quiet again. “How do you still not get it?”

“I do get it. I understand how much you support me. I just miss home, Nora. I don’t mean it as a slam or a slight. You’re so brave and adventurous—accomplishing all of this on your own. You even drive. I can’t drive, you know. It would never occur to me to try to drive. My mom and I count on each other so much, maybe too much—I see that now. You’ve shown me that. But I miss my mom. We have only a few weeks of living by ourselves, you know. With the wedding and all, everything’s about to change. So I really appreciate the ways you’ve taught me to strive for more independence. When I go home, I’m going to work on that. I’ll be really clear with my mom on that too.”

She moves to the door, and I can’t help chasing her with my voice. It’s shameful how I beg. “Nora, I have to go home. Mom’s wedding is coming up. You know, I’m choreographing this special dance for it. That’s a really important moment for the channel. We’ve hyped it so much. I think it’ll register record views. Nora, maybe you could tell me what you think of the wedding number—the song choice—”

But Nora interrupts me. “Hard truth, Shea: No one our age cares about the second wedding of two forty-five-year-olds. That’s just your mom, stealing your clout again.”

It almost makes me laugh. I think of Delancey explaining how the dance is a stupid intrusion on the wedding day. Now Nora has decided it represents my mom’s imposition on my brand.

All this time I’ve thought of my followers as people who cared about me. So that meant they also cared about my mom. I thought I was connecting with people all over the world. But really, I was just creating an empty image. A passive portrait for real people to love or hate. Nora doesn’t know me. She’s just observed curated minutes of my life.

I’m going to find a way to leave this cabin. I don’t care if I crawl out. I will wait for my hand to rot off my injured wrist. And when I finally get to leave, I won’t ever dance again.

Or I’ll shut all the doors and blinds and curtains. I won’t record myself or even let another person stand in the room with me unless they sign a written waiver, a nondisclosure agreement. What is my mom doing right at this moment? Has she retreated back to her bed? Are Delancey and Bryan taking care of her?

“That’s just not what my mom’s like, Nora. I appreciate your concern, though.” I pronounce each word carefully. I negotiate generously. “I see your perspective—really, I do. You’ve just misunderstood us.”

“Are you done?” She nods at the bowl in front of me. It’s as if I hadn’t even spoken. I am not about to win a diplomacy trophy.

“It was really delicious, thank you.” But Nora still doesn’t say anything as she collects the remnants of our shared meal. When the door slams shut behind her, I work to stifle my sobs. After all, it’s no use. It doesn’t change anything to cry. Instead, I consider all the ways I’ll use the time I once devoted to dancing and recording content for people on the internet who I didn’t know.

This brand-new Shea Davison will study martial arts. I’ll earn belts and everything. I’ll train to split wooden beams with my bare hands. I will lift weights. I’ll learn to drive. I will guard my privacy. No one will ever catch me unaware again. And I will never need to be polite to total strangers again.

Outside the blue sky darkens. I’ve lost another day. No, that’s too polite. The Shea who autographs every last program while her friends wait to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl would phrase it that way. The Shea who performs, who tries to please everyone. The honest fact is that another day has been stolen from me. Nora stole another day of my life.

When she raps the bedroom door with her standard three short knocks, I feel more prepared—resolved to reveal less of myself.

My resolution fades fairly quickly when I spot the second pair of handcuffs in Nora’s right hand. I’ve already opened my mouth to apologize when she digs into the front pocket of her jeans for a tiny silver key.

I shut my mouth, force myself to wait and listen. Sometimes when Nora leans over me, I imagine biting through her throat. She coos at me, “We’re going to be super gentle so that we jostle your sore wrist as little as possible. So just take it slow now, Shea.” She fastens a second cuff around my arm. She loops the other end around her own wrist in a swift motion that looks practiced. Here I am promising myself to take self-defense classes, but it seems like Nora has gone to kidnapping camp.

Maybe there’s a TikTok channel and she has spent hours rehearsing the complicated choreography of captivity. Once the new set of cuffs is secure, Nora takes the key she’s pinched in her lips and works it into the first set of handcuffs. She doesn’t fumble this part either.

When I’m finally free from the bed, relief doesn’t wash over me. There’s no flood of optimism. After all, now I’m linked to Nora. I still have a metal ring wearing down the delicate skin on my wrist.

But Nora has given me new information and that sliver of possibility for escape has widened slightly. Now I only need to overpower Nora to find a way to a main road. I’d just need to drag her with me.

I’ve spent so much time in my own head that I worry I spoke my plan aloud because Nora warns me, “I am much stronger than you. I’m heavier and you’re hurt. I know these woods and you don’t.

“You know that’s not safe. Not for you or me. But listen, you also can’t just sit here and wallow. You’ve got followers who count on you. Right now, they’re waiting … but honestly, that kind of patience is pretty short-lived. You need to record a new video. And I know—that’s stressful, but I’m fully prepared to help.”

“What? Nora, no one cares about my videos. Please, just let me go.” My voice begs but doesn’t even register. Nora just plows forward.

“I have some song choices in mind, but I’m eager to learn more about your process. So maybe we need to start with the music. We can listen to a few different selections. We don’t want to go too dramatic here, Shea. That may be tempting, but it’s cheap and sensationalistic. I think the rebrand will go more smoothly if you let the performances speak for themselves.”

“Wait, you want me to record a video? Like this?”

“Thank goodness I’m here. God, you are sweet but you’re clearly contending with some brain fog. Let’s work to focus a little bit more. I need you to keep up. When’s the last time you went six days without posting?”

My head swims, trying to make sense of the fact that I’ve been missing for six days.

“Yeah!” Nora almost shouts. “Exactly. I’ve done my best with just a few visual elements but honestly, it’s still very much your channel, and your followers want to hear from you.”

“You’ve been posting? You’ve been impersonating me?”

Nora’s head rears back and the hardness returns to her eyes. “That is not the term I’d use. I have been representing you, Shea. And by the way, you are very welcome. If we had posted nothing, if your channel just went silent, how do you think your followers would react?”

I just shake my head. Nora plows forward, practically shouting. I hold my sore wrist, so she can’t pull it while waving her arms. “Eventually, they’d unfollow. They’d forget. You’d fade into just another face they sort of remember from their bored browsing. They won’t remember your technique or your sad mom. If you disappear, they’ll disappear right back.”

I feel okay with disappearing. Worrying about followers and shares and likes seems so unimportant now. I can’t imagine facing anyone right now, let alone staring into a camera and smiling.

“Can I take a shower at least?” I ask. My voice sounds small and hopeless.

“You haven’t earned that trust, Shea. You know that. And frankly, I didn’t expect you to be quite so vain.” Nora brushes a stray flyaway from my face. “But listen, I’ll do your hair and makeup. We’ll give you a slicked-back wet style so your hair won’t look quite so greasy.

“I know the cuffs aren’t ideal. And I’d love to unlock them—we want that wrist to heal without a scar, but you have to realize we’re just not there yet. I can’t rely on you not to run. So we’ll just have to move carefully. You and me—we’ll need to work together, but think of it as rehearsal. We’re syncing our bodies. That’s just going to come through in the dance later on.”

Nora’s words land sporadically and I try to file away information as best I can. She plans for us to dance together. My arm might scar. Those details knock my breath loose in my chest, but I work to keep calm.

All I wanted was to be set free from the bed. My arm ached. I used a bucket for a bathroom for six days. But sitting here, now bound completely to Nora, feels so much worse. I feel like a leashed dog, a pet for Nora to control.

“Let’s go slow at first. Easy on your arm.” She stands up, holding her arm out in front of her. Nora nods to me so I stand on command. We shuffle across the bedroom floor. I am careful to widen my eyes, as if the four-room cabin is a property on Million Dollar Listing. I don’t want Nora to realize I’ve already done some exploring on my own.

“The bathroom’s right this way. I think we can give up the bucket, if you behave. I’ll face the door to give you some privacy.”

I want to die. The thought slams into me before I force myself to complete the basic tasks that come with being a human being and not a Labrador retriever tied in someone’s yard. When I’m finished, she lets me wash my hands and points to a new toothbrush on the bathroom counter. It’s green. Nora made sure to choose my signature color.

She helps me extricate it from the plastic packaging. “I don’t have floss. Sorry. You probably have a super conscientious dental routine.” I shake my head. “People always comment on your smile. I needed braces, but Sonny was not going near that expense. So I’ve got this snaggletooth.” Nora lifts her lip. “I’m not really worthy of close-ups, I guess.”

“My mom doesn’t let me whiten professionally. She thinks it’s bad for enamel. I use filters. You have a great smile. People appreciate unique features. Your snaggle is super cute.”

Nora’s face opens up. “That’s so kind of you. I can’t believe you said that. Shea Davison, thank you so much.” If I were a dog, I’d wag my tail. Instead, I just smile and nod. Nora claps her hands together, jerking my arm. “Okay—makeup time. I can’t believe we get to build a look together. Do you always do your own? With your hand and all”—she nods at the cuffs—“I think you should let me help you.” She says it like I have a choice.

“Yeah, of course. Most times I do it myself. Sometimes a friend helps.” I can close my eyes and picture Delancey biting their lip in concentration while I try to hold still. “My mom does it sometimes; a few times we’ve hired a professional, but we can’t really afford to do that all the time.”

“Maybe not yet. I’ve been practicing a lot, though. I think I’ve gotten pretty good. I can re-create most of your looks.”

“Awesome.” The one word sounds sarcastic. Nora’s head cocks to the side. “Really.” I rush to reassure her. “That’s going to be such a huge help.”

She nods and smiles. “Just wait until you see the full kit. I spent months putting it together. With samples and sale bin finds. I could launch my own channel, I swear.”

“You should seriously consider that, Nora. That’s a great idea.”

“Right? Can you say spin-off? Hey, let’s sit over here on the sofa. That way, I can reach you more easily.” We awkwardly shuffle into the living room. She carries the plastic makeup case that once in a while bangs on both our knees.

She sits me down on the sofa and then lowers herself down on the table in front of us. “Okay, let’s create some magic. This is so exciting—to step behind the scenes. I wonder if we should film part of this. A sneak peek of me living out a fan’s dream.”

I struggle to keep my expression neutral. She’s talking about posting a video. With her in it. Nora’s face will be out there, in public, for someone to identify and hopefully trace to this cabin. The possibility stretches out, right there, but if I’m too enthusiastic, she’ll see it too.

“You have such a good read on my followers, Nora. Whatever you think is best.”

“Our followers,” she corrects. “But for now, we should keep the focus on you. Give the people what they want to see.”

Nora examines my face, creating a plan for my makeup. I can’t let even a shimmer of tears gather. I jiggle my foot to try to concentrate on a different part of my body. Every inch of me bristles with her scrutiny.

“Look at you shaking! Are you nervous, Shea?”

“Maybe a little.” She’s still going to film me, share it publicly. I must look terrible. My eyebrows have grown like thickets, and I haven’t properly washed in almost a week. But anything Nora shares has the potential to lead someone to our location.

“We’ll tackle your hair first. I’m going to brush in some dry shampoo. That will soak up some of the oil.” I love how Nora points out my greasy scalp like it’s some kind of indication of my personal hygiene and not caused by being held captive. She treats me gently, but that makes it worse somehow. I wish she would just yank my hair, slap some foundation on me, and call it good.

I sit there and endure. “Close your eyes,” she says, and I lower my lids. “Purse your lips.” And I do. Nora holds up a handheld mirror when she’s done, and I stare into it curiously. I look like an extreme version of me. For one thing, my face looks thin and drawn. My cheeks have hollowed and my skin has dulled. Nora’s drawn my eyeliner with a heavier hand than I usually use. The lip gloss she chose is darker. Delancey will notice differences. So will my mom.

“I love it.” I turn the mirror this way and that and wonder, if I smashed it, could I use a large shard as a weapon? “Have you picked out a song? Did you have something in mind?” People make requests all the time in comments. I try to convince myself that this is just another time like that.

Nora shakes her head and says, “Aren’t you going to do my makeup?” She holds out a sponge and a fistful of products.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “Sure. Same look?”

Nora nods and lifts her chin up expectantly. My hand shakes. I think of the mirror. I feel for the tweezers. There’s a chance to do something, with Nora’s face turned to me and trusting, her eyes shut. But my mind blanks and my hands shake. She opens her eyes to ask, “You sure you got this?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not used to collaborating much, are you? We have to work on that.”

I think back to Delancey and the others, our studio rehearsals. “I’m getting there. I’m still learning. I don’t usually do anyone else’s makeup.” I steady my one free hand and squeeze an eye pencil between my finger and thumb.

“I think it’s actually that you’re selfish.”

Whoa. Nora’s come out fighting. “Well, goodness. I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“And that’s not a real apology. You should take ownership of your actions, Shea. It’s just an observation from an unbiased party. You’re usually very focused on yourself.” Nora’s tone is so matter-of-fact. I just sit there, painting her face while she assassinates my character.

“Most times, for me, dancing is a solitary act. It’s the way I express myself.” Nora’s jaw sets hard. I swab at it gently with the sponge. “But of course, I’m open to growing. Especially if that’s important to you.”

“Good. Because it’s important to me.” Nora puckers her lips and I paint them carefully. “I think we go back to the eighties. Punk, maybe prog rock selections. Those have been some of your best videos, and that would capitalize on some of the dated decor of the cabin. It’ll look like we meant it.”

“That sounds great to me. Here, see if this meets your approval.” I hold up the mirror. It feels heavy in my hand. Briefly, just for a split second, I imagine rearing the mirror back and swinging it hard, like a baseball bat. Nora’s head would snap back. A tooth or two would come flying out. And I’d still be linked to her by a set of metal handcuffs.

Nora stares into her reflection. She wilts a little bit, like she expected to see someone different. “I love it,” I tell her. “Your eyes really pop with the angled wing.”

Nora just shrugs. “I mean, it’s still me. But I appreciate you trying.”

Maybe it’s the close proximity or because we’re starting to feel like mirror images of each other, but I force myself to have a little empathy for a girl with a case of makeup samples and a dead mom. It’s clear no one’s made a habit of telling Nora she’s pretty. While that’s not the most important thing, I know how much it matters to be noticed when you feel like the rest of the world has deliberately ignored you.

“You look great, Nora,” I reiterate. And then a new thought strikes me. “Let’s post a photo just of you. Here, hand me my phone.”

“Easy there, Tiger.” Nora smiles tightly. “I think you should stop thinking of it as your phone. After all, doesn’t it feel so much better to not be tethered to it all the time?” she asks without a shred of irony. I fight to keep my eyes from wandering to the handcuffs. “I even changed the password.” There’s a warning in Nora’s voice. “I just think it’s better to avoid temptation.” Then she pulls out her own phone and says, “Okay, get ready. Here’s the song I’ve been considering.” It’s a Cure song with a fast beat and a catchy chorus. It sounds raw in a way that’s missing from their later albums.

“Yeah. I hear it. You want to work out some steps?” I stand up without thinking and suck my breath in through my teeth. I expect to see a ribbon of blood unravel on my wrist. “Nora, just for the dance, it’ll be so much better if I can move freely.”

“Please don’t ask again.” Her words sound deliberate. “You’re an expert. This is just a complication to work around. Be creative. And hey—” Nora stretches forward and reaches for a knit bundle balanced on the sofa’s arm. “I made us matching leg warmers.”

They are mint green, of course, with an intricate cable knit. “Wow. You really did think of everything.”

“Well, I figured for this first video, we’d keep the shots focused on our legs and feet. We’d really keep the audience’s attention on the steps. So the leg warmers add interest and create a uniform look. White socks, don’t you think? That’s to keep it consistent.”

My heart plummets. I try to keep my voice even. “Yeah, that’s great, but we spent so much time on our makeup. We should start with a low angle, focused on footwork, and then expand the shot on our faces.”

I don’t add, So that someone recognizes your face and calls your dad so that he leads the police to his remote cabin. That is, however, what I mean.

The problem is, I think Nora knows that’s what I mean. “Maybe for a later episode,” she says. “It’s okay for us to do our makeup for ourselves, Shea. Consider it a confidence boost. I think you need it. And I’ll freely admit, I need it too.”

She grins at me, and I see a shred of something smug and sinister in her expression. Nora knows exactly what I’ve been counting on, trying to get her face in a video. I tipped my hand, I can tell.

“So let’s review.” She ticks off the points on her fingers. “We’ve settled on an early Cure track. Legs and feet only. We’re linked at the arms and we’re going to stop whining about that. I’ll keep up in whatever ways you need, though. It might take me some time to learn but I won’t hold you back. I can promise you that, Shea Davison. I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

She is terrible. I mean she’s terrible because she kidnapped me and has held me in a rural cabin until I expressed willingness to perform for her like a trained monkey. There’s that. But Nora also happens to be a terrible dancer. She moves with a stilted, self-conscious rhythm. Her limbs look like they were screwed on in the wrong positions.

I keep revising the routine. I simplify it to keep my wrist still and then I streamline it to account for Nora’s inability to execute any kind of basic dance move. She apologizes profusely and that just makes it worse because I feel embarrassed for her and sorry for the ways she clearly doesn’t believe in herself. At the same time, this appears to be a major detail to overlook. How could Nora have practiced every tiny component of an abduction, but not actually spent time learning basic dance moves?

She makes a misstep and berates herself. Then she reassures me that she’s perfectly capable of keeping up. She blames her nerves and the drafty air. She blames the uneven floorboards and the silent pressures she feels from my expectations. She does not blame the fact that we’re handcuffed together, which does throw everything out of whack. I reassure her and we restart the music. Only to watch the train wreck in slow motion all over again.

It takes hours to record ninety seconds. I stop whimpering when my wrist jolts against the metal handcuff because then Nora dissolves into another round of apologies and excuses. “Maybe you should just do it,” she says at one point. “I mean, if you are going to intentionally arrange a piece that’s impossible for an untrained dancer to manage, we might as well just film you.”

“You can do this, Nora.” I try my best to bolster her confidence. And then because it is a chance and she is unraveling with every take we attempt, I offer up an alternative. “Maybe just let me do it solo once and then you can use the video to practice? You might be right—I don’t mean to overcomplicate the choreography. It’s going to be awesome to feature you in the dance. And maybe, only if you want, maybe we release the song first with just me. Then for the next post, we break it down with the two of us—like a B side?” I lay the groundwork. I try to stay a step ahead of her.

Nora pants a little, out of breath from all the failed takes. “It just surprises me. I may be self-taught, but I’ve always been able to learn your routines. This feels like a lot of pressure, though, with you right here, griping about your self-injury. You’re just not the best instructor.” Nora sighs. I picture pacing behind her and slapping a cane against my palm, the way that Madame Flint always kept the beat.

“I see that. I’ll get better at coaching. Should we set up the phone over here or …” I can’t risk asking Nora to take off the cuffs again.

She puts the phone on record and sets up the timer. It’s strange to see her handling my phone with such expertise. “Don’t worry,” she says sourly. “I’ll make sure to keep my amateur self out of the shot.”

“I didn’t say that, Nora. Really. Try not to get discouraged, okay? I’ve done a lot of bad sessions. I just don’t post those. We’ll get this done and then tomorrow you’ll make your grand debut. For this one, do you want to just focus the camera on my feet?” I ask as if the answer doesn’t matter, as if every sliver of hope doesn’t hang in the balance.

“No, you’re right. I think we save that angle for the two of us.” We both pretend that Nora’s not worried about publicly posting her face. “Besides, I did an awesome job on your makeup.” She takes a plaid blanket off the sofa and winds it around my arms. It covers the metal ring around my left wrist.

“I guess I’m better at editing videos than starring in them. Shea, don’t try anything, okay? I’m going to go through frame by frame. I’ll know if you change the choreography.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll do it just the same way.” I’ve become an actress as well as a dancer. Pretending I don’t know what Nora’s implying. And then, acting as if a notion just occurs to me, “I might tone my energy down a little bit, though. That way, when we post our version tomorrow, it’ll really slap.”

When the music starts and I have the relative freedom to move on my own, I first think of the people who will watch me. Nora will dissect every sequence, so I keep my expression serene. I need to dance through the gate of her gaze without setting off any alarms.

Once she uploads the video, I’ll have other eyes on me. Delancey will analyze every glance, every step. My mom will study my posture, my positions. Hopefully, they will notice the fact that I can’t really move, since my wrist is attached to another person.

I don’t let my lips form the words Help me. I focus on the lyrics. I hit each marker on the floor and keep my eyes straight forward. I don’t linger on the blanket wrapped around my arms but I’m quick and sharp with my left wrist, hoping to slip a glimpse of metal cuff in the shot or even drip a bit of blood.

I keep my limbs close to my body. I don’t go all in on any movement really. And I don’t smile widely. I hold back my dance dial to a four. It’s not as easy as Nora might think. It helps that I’m in an unfamiliar room, that I hurt, that I hate her.

But then the music seeps in and it feels so gratifying to let myself be swept away. I savor every way my body gets to move. I remember how it once felt to find myself alone and know that I could still dance through it. I hurl myself through space. I turn up the dial.

I picture myself on their little screens, turning in tight circles. I keep my followers’ eyes on me. I still exist, I want to scream. Please. See me.