And then: if they’d sent better actors, she would never have realized. A captive, and the “husband” the captor, the keeper of the key, and she, the “wife,” would never have realized.

“You are very tired, dear. And you know, darling—you are not well …”

Silently she demurred. Yes. No. But yes—she was very tired.

The man had the advantage, obviously. He must have a key to the door, for he had dominion over the house. As the roles had been cast, to the male has gone the dominant role, and it would be futile for Abigail to protest so late in her life. If the stranger confronting her would not acknowledge the imposture, if he continued to behave belligerently as if Abigail were, indeed, his wife of thirty-two years, there was little that Abigail, his captive, could do about it.

A weariness had settled over her like a fine-meshed net.

With a forced affability, as a husband might do, moved to magnanimity in the face of a sullen and unreasonable wife, the man reverted to the (familiar, comforting) subject of his day at work: conference calls, meetings, luncheon. He spoke of his plans for the next day and the next, reciting more names, a litany of names, ___, ___, and ___. For if you are a man among men, you are securely in the world only if there are such witnesses to testify to your existence, and your worth.

In this way, beating Abigail down as one might beat down a defenseless creature with a broom, not injuring the creature but (merely) beating it down, down, wearing it down; the captive swayed on her (bare) feet, very tired now, faint-headed, weakened as the fine-meshed net tightened about her. When had she eaten last, she could not recall. When had she slept last, she could not recall. When had she drawn a deep breath of fresh air, the kind that fills the lungs to capacity and thrills the soul, she could not recall. When had she heard her own name enunciated, what name was hers, she could not clearly recall. Perhaps she was anemic, her blood would require an infusion. Perhaps her brain had begun to dry, crumble like clay. Perhaps she could no longer chew and swallow solid food; soft-blended food would have to be provided by her captor or captors, or she would perish.

The exasperating certitude with which the white-haired man spoke made Abigail realize that she’d lost such certitude. In the accident perhaps—her forehead slammed against the windshield.

That was it: the beginning. Her fingertips touched the swollen bruise, sensitive between her eyebrows, as a third eye, yet unopened.