“I don’t know,” I said.

“Is it the people you’re working for?”

“I’m not working for anyone. The phone, it’s in my jacket.” I felt his hands reach in across my chest, fumbling about with my inside pocket. The phone’s ring got louder as he brought it out.

He said, “There’s a number showing.” He rhymed it off quickly, the phone ringing in his hand. It was the Metropolitan. Sarah, most likely.

“It’s my paper,” I said.

“Paper?” the man said. “A fucking newspaper? You’re a reporter?”

“Yes, well, not exactly. I’m suspended. Are you going to answer it for me or not? If they can’t get me, they’ll wonder what’s happened to me.”

Well, maybe. With cell phones, you didn’t get someone, you blamed it on the network. Your first assumption was not usually that the person you were trying to reach was bound with duct tape, on the floor of a barn, with some guy who was weighing the pros and cons of whether to kill him.

“Okay,” the man said. “But one word about where you are, you’re a dead man, okay?”

I nodded, heard the phone flip open, felt it pressed up against my ear.

“Hello,” I said.

“Zack?” Sarah. Even in my present situation, I was thrilled to hear her voice.

“Hey, honey,” I said.

“You okay? You sound funny.”

“No, I’m fine,” I said, trying to spit a bit of dirt from between my lips. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“I just, I don’t know, I thought I should call.”

“Yeah, well, that’s good. It was kind of, you know, awkward yesterday morning.” It was only yesterday, wasn’t it? When we’d had our chat in the bedroom, when Sarah had thought I was packing up to leave indefinitely? Unless I’d been unconscious for a day or two and didn’t know it yet.

“Yeah, well, yeah,” Sarah said.

“How’s it going? How are things, you know, at the paper?”

“Having a wonderful time here with Frieda.” Sarah paused. “This is the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being a home writer, okay?”

“Sure,” I said. My duct tape blindfold, at least the half that was still stuck to me, was starting to itch.

“But to get busted down from management and end up here, working for Frieda. Honest to God, she should be running a fucking flower shop.”

“Yeah, well,” I said. In addition to massive headache, having my arms tied behind me was making my shoulders sore as hell.

“Where are you?” Sarah asked.