“Yes, they do.”
“So it would be a surprise? If you ate one and you didn’t know?”
“Absolutely.”
“Zoe’s Surprise,” the child said. “That’s what I’m going to call it.”
“Perfect,” I assured her.
True to her word, although the child insisted on playing checkers throughout the day, she never once complained about not winning. In between, she busied herself with drawing. Although she watched television programs when I did, she displayed no independent interest in the medium. Nor was she at all drawn to the video games, the first of my captives who resisted such temptation. She continued to be somewhat ceremonious about meals, but as it mollified her to be allowed to alter either content or presentation, I silently acquiesced to the point where it became the norm.
I observed her closely for signs of dissociation, especially as she displayed no anxiety whatever concerning the progress of reunification with her family. Some children segue into an altered state to cope with unbearable trauma and, despite my best efforts, children have reacted in such a manner occasionally. However, Zoe was fully oriented—albeit often preoccupied—at all times. And although her curiosity was, in general, boundless, it was all outwardly focused.
“I’m going to be gone when you get up tomorrow morning,” I told her. “I have to go out and check the newspapers, and pick up some of the things you wanted. But I have to leave quite early to do that, do you understand?”
“Yes. But can’t I—?”
“Zoe,” I said patiently, “it would be impossible to take you along. I already explained—”
“Not that. I just wanted to. . . Oh, never mind.”
“Wanted to. . . what, child?”
“Never *mind*!” she blurted out, stamping her foot. The first display of willfulness I had observed. I made a decision not to press her, and she soon returned to what I had come to understand was her normal affect.
In order to encourage her to go to sleep earlier than usual—I myself could not rest until she had achieved that state—I read her another story.
As soon as she was asleep, I disabled the computer, proofed the surroundings, and tested the restraints. Everything was in order.
I awoke at 4:00 a.m.—my wristwatch has a silent alarm which causes it to throb against my pulse. After showering and shaving, I selected an anonymous business suit and a well-used carry-on bag. But when I re-entered the main room to have a cup of tea before I left, Zoe was up and bustling about.
“Why are you up so early, child?” I asked her.
“Well, I had to make breakfast, didn’t I?”
“It’s too early for you to eat. Why don’t you go back to—?”
“Not me, you. You have to eat something before you go out. It’s important to always have something in your stomach.”
“Very well,” I told her, not wishing to cause her any distress when she would be alone for so long.
She made an omelet with several different ingredients. I didn’t watch her closely, preferring to be surprised. It was excellent, despite the pale color and altered texture.
“What did you put in this, Zoe?”
“Cream cheese and red peppers.”
“Well, you’ve done it again. This is quite astounding.”
“You won’t forget, will you?”
“Forget what?”
“What you’re going to get. When you’re out?”
“A deck of playing cards,” I told her. “And some fresh bread, if I can find it.”
“You *did* remember.”
“It wasn’t a very complex task,” I told her. “Why would you expect me to. . .”
“People forget stuff,” she said, dismissively.
“My memory is flawless,” I responded.
“I wasn’t. . . Never mind.”
Not wishing to evoke another tantrum, I did not pursue the matter. After testing the security of the restraints, I said goodbye to Zoe and left the hideout from the first floor.
The drive was uneventful, as I had hoped. The radio had nothing about the kidnapping, despite my enduring its repetitive blather for the entire trip. I was fortunate enough to locate a spot in the short-term parking lot, the advantage being the coin-operated meters as opposed to a human being who filled the same role in the larger lot. The rates were near-extortionate, but a full hour was permitted, so there was no risk of an identifying ticket from one of the uniformed drones eagerly circling awaiting just such an opportunity.
The young woman at the airport concession counter rang up my innocuous purchases: People magazine, a lurid-covered paperback book, a deck of playing cards, and, of course, USA Today. I made certain that, upon inquiry, she would not recall a man matching my “description” as having purchased only the newspaper. She pulled a receipt
