He leaves, and I feel my brain begin to work like it should. If he wants to kill me, why hasn’t he done it? Because killing a person, even if you hate them, is hard unless you’re a psychopath. Is he really hoping I’ll kill myself? It’s possible. It even makes sense — no blood. He really could hang me from a tree, and by the time someone finds me, the birds will have pulled me apart. Or he could say the foxes dragged me in — I know there are plenty of foxes around here. But it’s seems obvious that he doesn’t want to shoot me. Perhaps he’s keeping me alive for someone else — someone who wants revenge, or just wants to ask me questions. But he’s also got a logic problem. If I really think I’m going to die in here, which I have been thinking, what’s to stop me from jumping him? All he can do is kill me.

I stand up and walk across the room, flexing and stretching my legs. They are stiff and uncertain, but the movement helps. I reach for the sandwich, and keep walking across the diagonal, then around the edges. My head still aches, but only in the places where it was hit. I stop at the door, and try to kick it out. The impact of my foot on the door does nothing except make my head hurt more. The only way out is through that door past Ben. But he knows that. He must think I’m too frightened of being shot to chance it, or he is only prepared to keep me alive for as long as it doesn’t get too difficult. So if I rush him, he’ll just murder me. Simple as that.

Is this what he did with all the victims? Kidnapped them from somewhere, drove them to the farm, and kept them in here until they killed themselves or were executed? Is it the bodies the foxes come for? I am exhausting myself with questions, and that is not a bad thing. I know it’s pretty hard to hit anything with a handgun unless you take a steady, supported stance. If I’m quick and lucky, he might only hit me in the leg — which can kill, of course, but I feel like it gives me a chance. So the next time he comes through the door, I will attack him, and steal his revolver. That is my plan.

But he doesn’t come. An ocean of time passes while I ready myself for his arrival and my move. I walk as much as I can stand it, and then I sleep fitfully, worried that he will come and go like the first time, and I won’t even get a crack at him.