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All it had in it were two things—a narrow built-in platform fitted with a mattress and, perpendicular to that, a sort of wide shelf with a mirror over it that served as a dressing table. That left about enough room to stand up and undress, and no place to put anything other than a couple of stacks of jeans and T-shirts, which was how she kept her clothes—in stacks on the floor. Her books she tucked under the shelf, and she put her panties on top of them, decently out of sight.
    Her dad had built the bed and shelf just for her, so she could come visit. Much as she wished he hadn’t bothered, she did love the room. It was her only refuge from her opinionated, nasty, gun-toting dad—and from the place itself, with its dead animal heads, off-putting noises, and primitive appointments.
    There was indoor plumbing, but everything leaked. There was a gas stove, but it was about fifty years old and didn’t always light. There were naked bulbs for light.
    The only bedding was worn sheets and army blankets. The sheets were soft and nice, but she couldn’t hack the sandpaper wool of the blankets—indeed, had pitched a tantrum until she was allowed to bring her own twin-sized duvet, which her father had ridiculed and called her “sissy cover.”
    Pretty soon, he was calling her Sissy, and so were all his friends. Of course it beat Blubberface, but that came later and didn’t last. Sissy stuck.
    She was so unhappy that summer, she actually missed her mother. God, her mother! Jacqueline the Queen. If her father was a minimalist, Jacqueline was his antithesis. Her apartment was so full of frills and pillows and fuss you had to struggle for breath. Jacqueline had more clothes than Macy’s and more makeup than Maybelline. She loved to go partying with her boyfriends, and she stank of gin on weekends.
    Her dad hated to party, hated almost everything, Lovelace included, and Jacqueline was way at the top of the list. But he did love to drink. Her mother said she worried about it and even asked Lovelace if he’d ever “touched” her.
    She’d answered, “Of course, Mom—what do you think? How’s he going to hit me if he doesn’t touch me?” and her mother had laughed. Lovelace hadn’t figured out why until years later.
    Actually, Lovelace liked it when he drank—he tended to get woozier and woozier until finally he’d just fall asleep, which left Lovelace more time with the Cokes, Oreos, and books.
    The feeling she had now was similar to the one she’d harbored that whole summer—trapped, but not hopeless. She’d get out, that much was certain, but she had to bide her time. She had to wait, and get through. Just get through.
    “You have to pee or anything?”
    She didn’t know how to answer, but she was damned if she was just going to lie there. She made some sort of hum through her gag.
    “Baby, I hate having you tied up like that. You want me to take the tape off?”
    She hummed again, as loudly as she could.
    “Well, let’s stop up here. You can go behind some bushes.”
    He stopped the car and cut the tapes, even rubbed her wrists.
    “Now you go pee, but don’t try to mess with me. I’ll just catch you.”
    She knew he would. Besides, it was better to gain his trust a little, hope he’d let down his guard. Maybe next time she could talk him into a gas station bathroom, and that would be it—she’d be free.
    When she came back, he was holding out a Coke to her, its top already popped. It was cold, and she needed it.
    “Can I sit in the front—with you?”
    “You know I’m different now, Lovelace.”
    She made her eyes go wide. “Really?”
    He opened the door for her—she’d won a concession.
    “I’m not conservative anymore—I’m a liberal.”
    She didn’t know what she’d been expecting to hear, but it wasn’t that. Even in her confused state of mind, she recognized that it was an extremely odd thing for a kidnapper to say.
    What the fuck do I care?
she wanted to shout.
You’re a sickie and a