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understand enough to know, because he straightens up and looks expectantly at Danielle, who repeats back Tina’s statement in Spanish. How horrible! Reiterating these kids’ personal messages has felt like spying. Martin, just before Tina, cried so hard Danielle could barely make out his words about how he still believed God would protect him. Antoine spoke to his parents with achingly straightforward affection. Pepe has listened closely through it all, his dark, almond-shaped eyes unwavering. Now something about them stirs a memory. Pepe reminds Danielle of someone she knew many years ago. But no. Not him. She tries to shake away the disturbing connection. More likely what she’s remembering is just the choking atmosphere of violence.
    Pepe sends Tina off. Danielle knows her turn is coming. She’s going to have to say something to her daughter. She won’t try for anything too lovey-dovey. That always backfires with Aida. But Pepe chooses Pierre instead. Wasting no time, Rita takes him by the arm. Rita, with her small head and tufts of bushy, dyed blonde hair that stick out from under her mask near chin level. She has a jerky way of moving and a meanness about her that seems to go beyond her role here. But she feels it again as Rita conveys intense pleasure in hauling Pierre up as roughly as possible. The cigarette he’s been smoking falls to the ground. The kidnappers have been plying them with smokes — as pacifiers, presumably. Danielle gets it all too well. She sees herself crawl over to pick up Pierre’s, brush it off, inhale. She quit a decade ago, but a slow, unhurried cig is still among the most desirable things she can think of. Fear keeps her glued to her spot beside the camera, of course, and Pierre doesn’t try to reach for it either, even though it’s practically begging to be rescued, right at his feet. Instead, he angles his head towards Antoine, trying to look like he’s above it, then yanks his arm back from Rita so hard she loses her grip. Rita only snorts, content to clamp down doubly, but the interaction provokes a discernible spike in Danielle’s anxiety.
    Pierre comes to sit on the decayed log that faces the camera. Filling out the shot is a green tarp like the kind they all slept on. The kidnappers have strung it between low branches. Behind that, above the trees, Danielle can see the range of mountains that she remembers well, that mark the border between El Salvador and Honduras. A long, long way from Toronto.
    When Pepe gives her the signal, she begins rereading the statement. “Start with your na —” but Pierre doesn’t wait for her to finish.
    â€œElvis Presley,” he says expressionlessly.
    Danielle forces a smile, like he’s joking. “Your real name.”
    â€œJohn Lennon.”
    Danielle’s palms moisten. She glances around. The others all seem confused, except Antoine. The fingers of both hands are crawling up his face towards his temples as if he’s scared, expecting something bad from his friend. The other kidnappers, Rita and Delmi, along with Pepe’s gangly sidekick, Cristóbal, exchange quizzical looks.
    â€œ No tengo patiencia para burlos, ” says Pepe without looking up from his screen.
    â€œHe’s getting impatient, Pierre. Just say your name, please.”
    â€œPierre Charbonneau, of Québec .”
    â€œNow repeat . . .” Danielle reads out Pepe’s script before pausing, waiting for Pierre to talk. He squints at her.
    â€œ C’est d’la merde .”
    Danielle tries to understand. Could this be pride? Neela said Pierre is active in the Quebec nationalist movement. So he thinks he’s a rogue? Sees himself as a grownup playing by his own rules, maybe. Her heart beats faster: she has been abducted alongside a man-child with delusions of difference.
    â€œ Qué, cabrón? ” Pepe is standing straight now, addressing him.
    Pierre looks right back at