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I took my time washing my hands and trying to finger-comb my hair, at which point I realized I had somehow become reluctant to look at myself in the mirror. I could not meet my own eyes.
    I could not bear to see my own terror, I told myself. But then I realized I was rationalizing what was really—shame? Of all the stupid—what did I have to be ashamed of? I had done nothing to be ashamed of.
    Yet facing the mirror and the look in my own eyes forced me to acknowledge damage beneath the skin. Physically, Stoat had not hurt me much—yet—but already I had been crippled. Stoat was in the process of diminishing my selfhood, taking away my spirit, reducing me to a joyless middle-aged child who was dependent upon him for life itself.
    This was not good. He must not see it in me.
    I stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself straight in the eye until I had to lift my chin and grin.
    From right outside the doorway Stoat demanded, “What the hell is taking you so long?”
    I let go of the grin but tried to keep my chin up as I went out to face him.
    â€œFeeling better?” he asked viciously. Yet his gun barrel motioned me not back toward the bed but in another direction, and I found myself entering a small kitchen that seemed a lot like the rest of the house, everything orderly, everything impeccable, everything cheap and without character. “Have a seat,” he said as we approached the generic tube-legged table topped with scrub-worn Formica. “I always say the key to a good day is a proper breakfast.”
    Good day?
    Again he seemed absurdly serious. Justin, manning the stove, served up toast, fried Spam, and scrambled eggs without letting me meet his eyes.
    â€œEat up, Lee Anna. Enjoy it,” said Stoat sincerely, almost compassionately, laying his revolver on the corner of the table beside him. Well out of my reach.
    Because I wanted to stay on the tube-legs-and-plastic-seat chair, as opposed to the much more formidable bed, I did manage to eat. Slowly, but Stoat seemed all patience and goodwill this morning.
    â€œJustin, you gotta stay home from school today, boy. One look at your face, people will be asking who pissed on your Cheerios.”
    School? Right, it was Monday, but—but normally Justin went to
school
? Why hadn’t he told a teacher he was abducted? Why hadn’t he contacted his parents?
    Justin looked at Stoat and whispered, “You
gotta
go to work?” as if he was scared of being left home alone with me.
    â€œYes, boy, I gotta go to work because it’s spring break down in Panama City, the T-shirts are flying off the shelves, and if I don’t show, my ass is grass and my boss is the lawn mower.” He grinned at his own trashy wit. Justin tried for a smile, appearing anxious to please, but Stoat leaned back, crossed his arms, and studied the boy. Then, to my unpleasant surprise, he turned to me.
    He stared straight into my eyes, and my pride made me stare straight back at him even though there was nothing to see in there. He challenged me. “You think I’m lower than a snake’s asshole, don’t you?”
    I couldn’t truthfully say no, and I didn’t feel safe saying yes, so I said, “You seem hollow.”
    â€œHuh. Well, maybe that’s from spending nearly my whole life not able to be what I am. Ever since I was a teenager, I knew I wanted to do it with little boys, but I stayed celibate for my parents’ sake till they passed away. Justin, here, he was just a cute little brat when I grabbed him. I thought he was eight or nine years old. How was I supposed to know he was a late bloomer? My mistake he only stayed prime a few months before he shot up on me, and now look at him. But it’s not his fault I’m fixing to get me a replacement. See, I like to think straight about things, Miss Lee Anna. You being here and putting us all in this predicament is nobody’s fault—it just happened and