The man clutches the phone in a fist, stepping closer. “I’ve spent every last penny I have to make sure my little girl stays alive. Medicines and copays and therapies, all of which my crappy insurance refuses to cover. I’m here to tell you that American insurance companies are the devil. Their existence has nothing to do with health. It’s about getting rich, pure and simple.”

“You told her you were in a kitchen. When we were downstairs, I mean, the first time you talked to her. You made it sound like you were at work.”

“Well, I lied. I haven’t worked a job in months. When could I when I’m the only parent she’s got? I spend every minute of the day and night taking care of her.”

The man studies me. Frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Is this a trick question? I open my mouth to answer, but the only sound is a clicking of my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

“Why are you all sweaty?” His eyes go squinty, taking me in. “You can stop pretending you give a shit. Your sympathy act doesn’t have me fooled, you know.”

Project calm. Pretend you don’t know. It’s the only way to make it out alive.

I force myself to breathe. “It’s not an act. I’m a parent, too. My children have spent more time than I’d like to think about today being threatened with a gun or a knife, and now my oldest is taped to a chair. I know what it’s like to feel helpless.”

“I’m helpless because of Cam. Cam did this, not me. This is all his fault.”

I press my lips together and say nothing. This man’s money problems are shitty, yes. The consequences for his sick daughter are definitely tragic. Cam may have had a hand in knocking over that first domino, but I still don’t see how any of this is his fault.

I glance at my watch: twenty more minutes. I think of Baxter across the road; my son is in the hands of the enemy. He’s in the enemy’s house. Getting to him is everything, the sun and the stars and the moon. Twenty minutes is an eternity.

I sit up straight and try to breathe and think.

Keep him talking. Survive for twenty more minutes. It’s the only way.

“Where is your daughter now?” I say.

“Don’t worry, she’s not alone. Someone’s looking out for her.”

The coconspirator auntie on the other end of the phone.

I recall his worry about the levels and numbers, that vest and oxygen tank he mentioned just now. Tanya told me all about the vest, an inflatable machine that vibrates and loosens the mucus so the patient can cough it up. It’s like physical therapy for the chest. Her niece wears it twice a day.

“How is she?”