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search for where he went. I hear him
moving about the house, but I’m not sure what he’s doing. I swallow hard as his
heavy footfalls grow louder. When he walks back into the room, I notice he’s
holding a black case that’s roughly the shape and size of a large book. I also
see a notebook and a pen. Holding the items in one hand, he picks up the lamp
and sets it on the floor. He places the items on the cleared nightstand.
Looking at the table, he frowns.
    He slides the small table away from the bed and stands
between it and me. I think he’s intentionally hiding whatever’s in the
mysterious black case. With his back to me, he unzips the rectangular-shaped
bag. Since he’s blocking my view, I have no idea what’s in the case.
    He turns slightly, and my eyes meet his. He offers me a
somewhat chilling smile.
    “You think I’m going to torture and rape you, don’t you?”
    I’m not sure what he wants to hear, but he’s damn good at
figuring out what I’m really thinking, so I go with the truth.
    “Yes,” I admit.
    Apparently fascinated by something, he walks around the
nightstand so he can watch me as he works. I can see what he’s doing now since
he’s no longer blocking my view.
    “I need information from you, American, and we learned
decades ago that torture and rape are not reliable methods of interrogation.”
    I might feel better about that statement if he hadn’t just
pulled a syringe with a needle from the case. I’m not sure what this guy’s
definition of torture is, but to me, anything with needles definitely
qualifies. I almost wish he was blocking my view again. I’m not sure I want to
watch.
    Without looking at me, he pulls off the needle’s plastic
cap. He sets the cap down on the nightstand, but it rolls off and falls,
clattering noisily against the hardwood floor. He doesn’t pick it up.
    He pulls a small glass vial from the case before setting it
down on the table. While holding the vial steady, he plunges the needle into
it. After carefully inverting the bottle, he brings the inserted syringe closer
to his face as he expertly draws the clear liquid. There’s no hesitation or
uncertainty in his actions. I have the impression he’s done this many times.
    “What is that?” I ask, though I know he’s not going to tell
me.
    He smiles as he looks at me. “You don’t get to ask the
questions, American.”
    I’ve read the Nazis have spent billions on pharmaceutical
research. There are rumors they have potent mind-weakening drugs, but I’m not
sure if that’s what he’s going to give me or not.
    Since I’m helplessly tied down, I can’t do anything to stop
him. His gloved fingers lightly trace a vein in my upturned wrist. The rope
securing me to the bed is closer to my hand and doesn’t appear to be in his
way. He looks focused. His index finger stops and presses into my flesh. I’m
sensing he’s found whatever it is he’s looking for.
    He swabs my wrist with something cold and wet. I find it odd
he’s sterilizing the injection site. I guess he wants to keep me healthy for my
execution.
    The tip of the needle touches where his index finger was. I
inadvertently tug against the restraints, but he’s holding my arm, preventing
any thrashing. I squeeze my eyes shut, fearing the injection will most likely
hurt. The needle feels like a sharp pinch, but fortunately there’s nothing
really painful about it. When I feel the needle leave me, I open my eyes.
Willing myself calm, I study the ceiling.
    As part of my training, I’ve actually had several so-called
truth serums administered to me. If it’s something my system has been
introduced to before, I might have some resistance to whatever this drug is. My
experience with most truth serums is that they’re not very effective.
    As I study the ceiling, I suddenly feel a bit loopy and
sleepy.
    I guess my system has never experienced this particular drug
before or it wouldn’t be hitting me this hard and this fast. Reality