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pure willpower.
    My captor knew I was starving. He knew the food he provided was barely enough to sustain essential body processes. He knew that one tiny bite would awake that insatiable hunger.
    So, the next day, I discovered an entire tray of food. It was like the one that had arrived the first time, but even larger. There was a single spotlight shining on it.
    I did not need the light to know it was there. My nose picked up the mouthwatering aroma the moment I woke up.
    There were pastas and soups, cakes and tarts, glazed fruits and chopped vegetables. There was seafood—lobster, salmon, shrimp and clam—drenched in buttery sauce. There was scrumptious corn on the cob, glistening with cream, and steaming plates of veal, steak, and a half-dozen other meats. There were bowls of rice and rolls of sushi, teriyaki chicken, and pulled pork. There was even a whole bowl full of my absolute, biggest weakness: caramel-dipped chocolate truffles.
    It was enough to feed a village. The smells were so rich that they would send the strictest dieter onto the biggest binge of her life.
    When I stood up on trembling legs, my mouth salivating, the rest of the lights came on. I blinked through the pain that the sudden brightness always caused, and saw that my path to the food was blocked by a single sheet of paper.
    The contract.
    There was another message:
     
    You are hungry. The food you see is two feet beyond the range of your collar. Sign, and you will earn your first freedom:
    Twenty-four inches.
     
    I collapsed onto the floor and cried.
    It was the illusion of freedom that got to me most, not the promise of food. In that moment, I saw just how desperate my situation had become. Every aspect of my life was governed by a madman. He would continue feeding me, barely enough to live, while tempting me with the relief that would come when my signature scratched on the empty line of that filthy piece of paper.
    I crawled back to the pillar and hugged the balled-up cloth to my chest. The lights went out.
    That day, I did not even receive my allotted breakfast.
     
     

Chapter Twelve
    (Present day)
     
    Two weeks. Two weeks I’ve spent like this.
    I have not felt the sun on my face or the wind in my hair for half a month. I have not seen another human being or heard any voice but my own for fourteen endlessly long days and nights.
    Sometimes, I sing to myself, just to break the oppressing silence. It is quite likely I am going insane.
    Every day since the promise of twenty-four inches I have woken to a freshly-stocked tray of food. I receive my daily allotment of eggs, toast, and celery, too. I eat that on the far side of the pillar to temper temptation.
    My body is shriveling up. I am always cold. The smallest movement is a burden. I reek.
    At this point, I am starting to doubt the wisdom of my resolve. The battle that goes on deep inside my mind is one of my own making. The clarity of purpose required to resist is becoming muddy.
    If I sign the contract, I sign my life away. But, if I do nothing, am I not giving my life away, too?
    I am so lonely. My only friend is the crater in the pit of my stomach.
    Hunger, at least, lets me know I’m still alive.
    What a sad existence this is. Grime and sweat is caked upon me like a second skin. Sometimes, I crawl to the edge of the border and stare at the food. If I stretch out my hand, I can almost touch it.
    The only thing standing between me and it is that one piece of paper.
    One little piece of paper, requiring one little signature.
    Is this what a prisoner of war feels like? Is this the same sense of hopelessness that rules the lives of those at Guantanamo Bay?
    Or, is this something much worse?
    My stubborn refusal to wield a pen is killing me. I must have fantasized about what I might do a thousand times:
    I scratch my signature on the paper. The lights come on. My captor reveals himself, and congratulates me for accepting fate. In my mind, he has no face. The range of the collar is extended.