“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.