Held by Edeet Ravel Page A

anywhere?”
    “No.”
    “Can I just check a few things?”
    “Yes,” I said. It felt strange, letting him examine me—it was as if we were in a play or some kind of bizarre reality show. But I didn’t have any choice. I wanted to get better.
    He touched the glands along my throat and pounded my lower back to check my kidneys; then I lay down and he lightly pressed parts of my stomach. He had unusual hands, an unusual touch. Gentle, alive, communicative. Like his eyes, his fingers compensated for his expressionless face and unemotional voice.
    Or maybe it only seemed that way because I was so isolated, and being touched made me feel less alone. It was confusing, seeing this side of him, and my confusion tired me out.
    “I don’t usually get sick,” I told him.
    “Did the man come near you?” he asked, moving away and also looking away.
    I knew what he meant and I said quickly, “Oh God, no. No.”
    I shuddered. Bad as it was, it could have been worse. Well, everything can be worse, I thought. So what?
    “You’re angry at him?” I asked because I needed to hear him say it again.
    “Yes, of course. More than angry.”
    “Because he almost killed me? Because he did it behind your back? If it was behind your back,” I added, more to myself than to him.
    “I’ll make you tea,” he said. He rose from the bed and placed the kettle on the hot plate.
    I had an irrational sense of being abandoned and, trying to draw him back in, I continued desperately, “That’s what happens when you become a criminal.” I began to shiver with cold. I sat up and draped the army blanket over my shoulders. “You end up hanging out with people like that. What if he kills you? And then I won’t have you to protect me.”
    “That’s something you don’t have to worry about.”
    He handed me a mug of tea and I held it against my chest. “Why am I shivering?” I asked.
    “Your body is seeking to balance out its temperature.”
    “Who are you?” I asked, pleading with him for an answer, though I knew he couldn’t provide one.
    I began to feel sick again. “I don’t feel well,” I said, throwing off the blanket. “Now I’m hot. Could you open the door again, please?”
    He undid the combination lock and opened the door. Sweet-smelling air filled the warehouse and made me sleepy. I wanted to shut my eyes, but though my nightmares had subsided, I was still haunted by the image of the tunnel whenever I shut my eyes. “Will you read to me?” I whispered. I didn’t know if he could hear me; I could barely hear myself.
    “If you like.”
    “Why are you kind to me?”
    “The goal is for my friend to be released, not to make you suffer.”
    “What if they make one of those police drawings of you?”
    “No one will suspect me.”
    “Such a nice smell coming from outside. Can I step out, just for a few minutes?”
    “When you’re better,” he said.
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    I didn’t believe him. I lay down and he resumed reading from where we’d left off. David Copperfield had been sent to school by his evil stepfather and Steerforth had taken his money. At first you’re sure Steerforth is tricking David, but he uses the money to buy food for everyone so David will be popular with the other boys. Steerforth benefits from the party, but so does David.
    I could tell my hostage-taker was enjoying the story as well. It was pleasant listening to him; he had a nice reading voice. I realized that I’d stopped noticing his foreign accent. I interrupted him to ask, “Do you know the story?”
    “I never read it until now.”
    I felt a sudden rush of affection for him. “You’re cute,” I said. I wasn’t usually spontaneous like that, just blurting out a passing thought without considering whether I really meant it or how it might sound.
    But it was as if nothing mattered anymore. I could say anything, do anything, because none of this was real. It was something else altogether. Not a game or a movie but something