Hero is a Four Letter Word by J.M. Frey Page B

me. Isn’t that enough for them?”
    “Oh, Rachel. You certainly do have a pleasant view of the world.”
    “Don’t call me naive!” The way she spits it makes me think that she says this quite often.
    “I’m not,” I say. “Only optimistic.” I gesture through the door. “The kitchen is there. I will leave the door unlocked. I’ve a closet through there — take whatever you’d like. I’m afraid your clothing was too bloody.”
    “Fine,” she snarls.
    I nod once and make my way into the kitchen, closing the door behind me to leave her to rage and weep in privacy. I know from personal experience how embarrassing it is to realize that your freedom has been forcefully taken from you, in public.

    I built this particular laboratory-cum-bolthole in the 1950s, back when the world feared nuclear strikes. I was a different man then, though no less technologically apt, and so it has been outfitted with all manner of tunnels and closets, storage chambers, libraries, and bedrooms. The fridge keeps food fresh indefinitely, so the loaf of bread, basket of tomatoes and head of lettuce I left here in1964 are still fit makings for sandwiches. I also open a can of soup for us to share.
    She comes out of the recovery room nine thousand and sixty-six seconds — fifteen point eleven minutes — after; a whole three minutes longer than I had estimated she would take. There is stubbornness in her that I had not anticipated, but for which I should have been prepared. She did not die in that garage, and it takes great courage and tenacity to beat off the Grim Reaper.
    “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she says, and sits in the plastic chair. I suppose the look is called “retro” now, but this kitchen was once the height of taste.
    “Why are you apologizing to me? ” I set a bowl in front of her. She doesn’t even shoot me a suspicious look; I suppose she’s decided to take the farce of believing me a good person to its conclusion.
    “It sucks that you’re so sure people are going to hate you.”
    “Aren’t they?”
    She pouts miserably and sips her soup. It’s better than the rage I had been expecting, or an escape attempt. I wasn’t looking forward to having to chase her down and wrangle her into a straitjacket, or drug her into acquiescence. I would hate to have to dim that keen gaze of hers.
    I sit down opposite her and point to her textbook, propped up on my toaster oven for me to read as I stirred the soup. It had been in the bloody backpack I stripped from her, and seemed sanitary enough to save. Her cell phone, I destroyed.
    “This is advanced, Rachel,” I say. “Are you enjoying it?”
    She flicks her eyes to the book. “You’ve read it.”
    “Nearly finished. I read fast.”
    “You didn’t flip to the end?”
    “Should I?”
    “No,” she blurts. “No. Go at your own pace. I just … I mean, I do like it,” she said. “Especially the stuff about supervillain reformation.”
    I sigh and set down my spoon. “Oh, Rachel.”
    “I’m serious, Oliver! Just let me make a phone call. I promise, no one will arrest you. I won’t even tell them I met you.”
    “You won’t have to.”
    She slams her fists into the tabletop, the perfect picture of childish frustration. “You can’t keep me here forever.”
    “I can,” I say. “It is physically possible. What you mean to say is, ‘You don’t want to keep me here forever.’”
    She goes still. “Do you want to?”
    I can. I know I can. I can be like one of those men who kidnaps a young lady and locks her in his basement for twenty years, forcing her to become dependent on him, forcing her to love him. But I don’t want to. I’ve nothing but distaste for men who can’t earn love, and feel the need to steal it. Cowards.
    “No,” I say.
    “Then why are you hesitating? Let me go.”
    “Not until you’re fully healed, at least,” I bargain. I’m not used to bargaining. Giving demands, yes. But begging, never. “When no trace of what I’ve done