I gasp and grab his hands, pushing them away. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer me. He lifts his hands to my neck. Wherever he touches me there is heat. I roll my head back and his thumbs graze my jaw.

“What I want,” he says.

I roll my head to the left to try to pull away from him, but he pushes his hand into my hair at the back of my head, and kisses the side of my neck until I’m shivering. He has me at a disadvantage; I’m trying to keep myself upright with one hand and push him away with the other. Eventually, my hand slips out from under me and we collapse on the table.

He kisses me. Hard at first—like he’s angry—but when I touch his face he softens. It’s when his lips drag slowly across mine, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth that I relax. My legs lift off of the table and my feet cradle his waist. Heat; heat on the arches of my feet, heat on my mouth, heat pressed between my legs. He reaches down and pulls my robe open all the way. I lift my arms out of the robe and wrap them around him. Then he rolls me until I’m on top of him. I sit up and he lifts me at the waist until I’m hovering above his erection. He’s right there; the tip is touching me. All I have to do is push down and he will be inside of me. And I want him to be. Because I need to touch and be touched.

But Isaac is hesitating. He doesn’t want to let go of my waist. He’s thinking of his wife; I’m thinking of his wife. I’m about to tell him, forget it, when he abruptly releases his hold on my waist. Without him suspending me, and with no warning I slide onto him. I suck air loudly. It’s a gasp if I’ve ever heard one. One minute I’m empty, the next I’m full. A deep, slow panic. He does not belong to me. What am I doing? I try to climb off him, but he grabs my wrists and rolls on top of me, pinning me down. He kisses me slowly with both hands pressed against the sides of my face, all the while moving slowly in and out of me.

“I want to be with you,” he says into my mouth. “Stop it.”

So I stop it. I let him kiss and stroke and touch and I don’t fight him. We’ve only had sex once; in the rain, on the carousel, with me on top. Now, it doesn’t feel so much like sex. It feels intimate. I’ve never done what we are doing. Not with anyone. Not even with Nick. I’ve never laced my hands in a man’s hair and breathed into his mouth with abandon, and wanted him to be as deeply inside of me as he could—because it felt more real that way. And a man has never buried his face into my neck and moaned, like every movement inside of me is worth a reaction.

But we are here on the table, rocking against each other and having the kind of sex that is breathless and tender and hard all at the same time. He is touching me everywhere. His fingers roving over my chest and back and thighs. It makes me feel like I am something beautiful rather than this atrocity that life has turned me into. And while Isaac is inside of me I forget everything. I forget that I am a captive, and that bones have been broken, and that we’ve almost died. I forget that he has a life with someone else. I forget that I was raped and that I have no breasts. I forget that I fight so hard not to feel anything. Isaac is making love to me, and all I feel right at this moment is valued.


He carries me up to his bed, and lays me down on the mattress. I can feel him trickling down my thigh as he climbs into bed and stretches out beside me. Hold me, I think. Only words in my head, but Isaac turns his body and folds himself around me. I crush my eyes together.

Pitter patter, pitter patter…

Fear, light footed, dances around me. She whispers seductively in my ear. We are lovers, fear and I. She calls to me, and I let her in.

Go. I tell her. Let me go, let me go, let me go, let me go.

“Tell me a lie, Isaac.”

His fingertips trace a curlicue on my shoulder.

“I don’t love you.”

He cannot see my face, but it writhes: eyelashes, lips, the cutting of lines across my forehead.

“Tell me a truth, Senna.”

“I don’t know how,” I breath.

“Then tell me a lie.”

“I don’t love you,” I say. I sink beneath the weight of it all.

Isaac stirs behind me, and then he is leaning over me, his elbows on either side of my head.

“The truth is for the mind,” he says. “Lies are for the heart. So let’s just keep lying.”

I kiss the man I lie to. He kisses me with truth. I am set free.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Two days later Isaac gets sick. It’s the kind of sick that scares me. At first when I question him, he tells me that nothing is wrong. But then the tiny beads of sweat start to collect on his brow and upper lip like condensation. I narrow my eyes at him as we eat. He’s clearly forcing down his food. His skin looks like wax—shiny and colorless.

“Okay, doctor,” I say, setting down my fork. “Diagnose yourself, and then tell me what to do.”

My voice is light, but something in my gut is telling that this is bad. We don’t have any more antibiotics. We don’t really have any more anything. I checked our supplies earlier: a couple tubes of burn cream and a surplus of bandages and alcohol wipes. We’ve been trying to save the power and use the logs from the well, but we are running low on those, too. I realize I’ve been waiting too long for Isaac’s answer. He’s staring at his plate, not really seeing anything.

“Isaac…” I touch his hand and my eyes grow wide. “I’d say you have a fever.”

My lips feel dry. I flick my tongue over the top of them while considering Isaac’s fever. “Let’s get you upstairs, okay?”

He nods.

An hour later he is trembling uncontrollably. I’ve shaken like this—I can remember each time. But my trembling was emotion. The body deals with attacks the same way—emotional or not. Isaac was always the one to make it go away. I can’t do the same for him. What he needs is beyond what my body can do for him.

I can’t get him to wake up. He never told me what to do. His body says he’s hot—too hot—but this cabin is a freezer. Do I keep him warm, or cool him down? I sit next to him and try to pray. If I lean close to his face I can feel the heat rising off his skin. No one taught me how to pray. I don’t know who I’m praying to: an obese god who is always grinning? A god with a woman’s head that sits on a man’s body? A god with holes in his hands and feet? I pray to whichever it is. My mouth moves with words—begging, pleading words. I’ve never spoken to God before. I partly blame him for the bad that’s happened to me. I say I don’t, but I do. I’m willing to never blame him again if he just saves Isaac.

I think he’s heard me when Isaac’s shaking suddenly stops. But when I lower my head to his mouth his breathing is shallow. I pray directly to the God with the holes in his hands. He seems like the one to talk to. A God that understands pain.

“That’s Isaac,” I tell him. “He helped me, and now he’s here. He didn’t do anything to deserve this. And he shouldn’t have to die because of me.” Then I appeal directly to Isaac.

“You can’t do this again,” I tell Isaac. “This is the second time. It’s not fair. It’s my turn to almost die.”

I lean down and touch my forehead to his. I want to lie on him and take his heat, but now is not the time for being cold. I pull my head up and stare down at him. I’m afraid to leave him and go look for medicine. We closed off the hole below the table weeks ago. But maybe he forgot something. Maybe there is still medicine down there: a pill in the dirt. A miracle in a dark corner. I know it’s a long shot, but I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I kiss him on the mouth and stand up.

“Don’t die,” I warn him. “I’ll chase right behind you if you do.”

If he can hear me, threatening him with my death will work. He will hold on just to keep me alive. I dart out of the room and head for the kitchen. The tabletop is easier to push aside this time. I’m stronger. I grab the flashlight and climb down the ladder he left in place. There are still grains of rice scattered across the floor from the day I knocked the bag over. They pierce my socks and make my toes curl up. The floors and shelves are bare. I run my hands along the back of them, feeling for any lucky leftover. I catch a splinter in my palm and pull it out. The metal box with the medical cross on it bolted to the wall is open. There is nothing on the shelves but dust. I grab the box and try to rip it off the wall, but the box is bolted down. My muscles are more inefficient than my anger.

“I can’t even rip something off the wall right!” I yell at nothing.

I stick my fingers in my hair and pull until it hurts. First, I feel helpless, then I feel hopeless, then I feel overwhelming grief. I can’t handle it. I don’t know what to do with myself. I fall to my knees and clutch my sides. I can’t do this. I can’t. I want to die. I want to kill. All of my feelings are coming at once.

You’re selfish, I hear a voice say. Isaac is dying and you’re thinking about how you feel.

The voice is right. I stand up and dust the rice off my knees. Then I climb back up the ladder; the only indication I’m on overload is the trembling of my hands.


I go back to the room to check on Isaac. He’s still breathing. That’s when I remember the book I found in the chest, at the base of the carousel bed. It always struck me as strange that our captor would put that book in the same house with a doctor.

I shove open the lid to the chest and see the book lying at the bottom. There is a single puzzle piece resting on its cover. I dust it away. This was the only book I saved when we burned everything to keep warm. It makes no sense why I’d save it. I had Isaac to answer my medical questions. Isaac to stitch me up. I saved it for myself. Because on some level I knew the zookeeper put it here for me. My stomach clenches. I flip through the index. Page 546. Fever.