HER PRISON CELL WAS DARK and dank.
Weak moonlight cut through the tiny barred window, barely
casting a thin strip of shadow on the hard sand floor. The
air lay still, silent and heavy, yet compared to the days
of hundred-twenty-degree temperatures, it seemed
blissfully cool.
In just a few hours, dawn would come and the desert heat
would again turn her cell into an oven. Trapped between
the walls in this armpit of hell, the heat swelled and
seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the air. Day or
night, Katie felt choked. Midday, she often spent
strangling, and when the sandstorms came, the misery
increased tenfold.
That which is endured is conquered.
She gently held the photo of her husband, Sam, and their
children, Molly and Jake. It was far too dark to see it,
but that didn't matter; she'd memorized every detail.
Though it made the ache in her heart so acute she swore it
would kill her, each night she forced herself to remember
every quirk and expression and sound they'd ever made,
terrified if she missed even one night she'd forget and
never again be able to recall them. She relived each
memorable moment and the way it had made her feel, the way
they had made her feel, at least a million times, and
prayed it would be enough to last her the rest of her life.
Eyes are unnecessary to view what is stored in the heart.
The photo's edges were frayed and the images worn smooth
in places โ one on Molly's hair and one on Jake's nose.
Katie had always done that โ stroked Molly's hair, and
dragged her fingertip down the slope of Jake's nose. Back
then she'd been comforting them. Now she stroked their
photo, trying to comfort herself.
In the last six years, there had been little comfort. But
there had been an abundance of nightmares. Nightmares of
the crash, of her injuries. The pain of setting her own
broken bones. When she'd discovered she'd gone down in a
lawless tribal area, she'd known that there would be more
pain to be suffered. And there had been. Much, much more.
Despite the warlords' bets that she wouldn't last a week,
she had endured and conquered every single violation. She
had survived. Yet each abuse had created horrible images
that didn't fade from her memory on awakening. Images that
ignited resentment and anger and made it burn as strong in
her as the loneliness of isolation and the constant fear
of what the sadistic bastards holding her prisoner would
do to her next.
General Amid had been a godsend.
Still, it'd taken a couple years to come to grips with
being left behind. C.D. had to be dead, or he'd have found
her by now. She still mourned him. Mourned losing Sam and
their kids. Mourned having her life stripped away from her
and being left with...this.
It'd taken a couple more years to give up hope of ever
being rescued. But on the fifth anniversary of her crash
and capture, she'd reached critical-crisis point: accept
it or go insane. That night, alone in her cell, she had
slogged her way through a minefield of emotions and faced
the truth. No one could reach her here. No one would even
try โ not anymore, if they ever had. Too much time had
passed, and living in this cell, cleaning General Amid's
home, shopping for his household at the market โ that was
her life now, and likely that's all it would ever be. She
refused to think about his leaving. Without his
protection, the guards would revert to the way they'd
treated her before he'd stepped in, and that incited more
nightmares, more withdrawing deeper and deeper inside
herself, closing even more shutters in her mind, locking
away the memories of torture to stay sane.
Yet on still nights like this one, where she lay alone in
her cell on a bare cot with but one thing of her own โ the
photo โ she silently wept inside, crushed under the weight
of her darkest fears. She would die in this god-awful
place, still wearing her tattered flight suit because it
made the guards feel superior and powerful to hold her โ
the U.S. โ captive.
She would never again see Sam or Molly or Jake. She'd
never again know the joy of watching them play while she
worked in her beloved garden. It, too, likely stood as
withered and overgrown as the day they'd first moved into
the house. Sam was not a master gardener. He wouldn't even
remember to water the lawn if it wasn't on an automatic
sprinkler system. She'd worked two years on that garden.
But... Reality hit her. Everything in her life ceased to
be when she had ceased to be.
Except for Sam and the kids.
Yet even with the most heartfelt and resolute
rationalization, she couldn't convince herself that they
weren't gone from her life forever.
On her cot, she curled on her side, pulling her knees to
her chest, trying to shut out despair. God, how long must
I endure this? Why can't I die, too? Please, just end this
pain....
For the hundredth time that long, sorrowful night, she
swallowed a sob and buried her hopelessness. The guard was
apt to come in at any time, and she didn't dare let him
see her in tears. She'd made that mistake once early on
and would kill herself before doing it again. He and the
other guards had tortured her for six hours straight.
Shaking head to toe at the memory, she crossed her chest
with her arms and squeezed. The sensation of pressure
swept sweet relief through her body. She was awake, not
asleep, not dreaming those haunting dreams. She had
survived.
That which is endured is conquered.
Rubbing the faded U.S. flag patch on her sleeve, she
wondered. What were the children doing? Was Sam home from
the hospital, tucking them into bed, singing them night-
night songs? Did he notice that Molly showed signs of
being as psychic as Katie's mother? Did he remember that
she hated the crust on her sandwiches, and Jake had to
have orange juice every morning to jump-start his blood
sugar level? Did Sam remember to kiss them good-morning as
well as good-night? How often did he remember to tell them
he loved them? He'd seldom slowed down long enough to tell
Katie herself, but love had always been there in his eyes.
Always there in his eyes. Molly would sense that. But
would Jake?
A tear splashed onto Katie's cheek and her heart ached.
God, how can I keep taking this, day after day? Please,
please let what happened today matter. Please let that
French doctor report seeing me.
He had seen her. Hadn't he? He definitely had made eye
contact, been startled and quickly covered it up, then
pretended not to have seen her at all.
General Amid, who ran the prison camp, had sent her to the
market for his fresh vegetables. There was no danger of
her running away. There was nowhere to run and no one to
run to, and anyone foolish enough to try would die in the
desert or be slaughtered by the warlords hiding out in the
region. In the market, there had been a small group of
medical workers treating the sick, passing out
medicine.... That's where she'd seen the French doctor. He
had to have reported seeing her....
But nothing happened that night to verify it.
Katie consoled herself. It took time to notify people.
Time to identify her and to debate the options and decide
what to do. Warning herself she was being a damn fool, she
couldn't seem to stop hope from flickering to life inside
her.
Nothing happened the next night, either, and doubt seeped
in. Maybe she'd just seen what she'd wanted to see, and
the Frenchman hadn't noticed her at all. Or maybe it was
just taking a little longer to get the wheels moving. It
had to be taking just a little while longer....
But a week later, when still nothing had happened, her
certainty disappeared. The Frenchman hadn't seen her, or
if he had, he'd chosen to ignore it or he'd thought
nothing of it.
The most important glimpse of her life โ but to him it'd
been too insignificant to even notice.
You've got to stop this, Katie. Stop hoping. It's insane.
Nothing is going to happen. Keep hoping, and how are you
going to handle the letdown? Hope is a luxury you can't
afford.
She paced her cell in the darkness, bitterness burning her
throat, her chest so tight she could barely breathe. Die,
hope. She pushed a fisted hand over her heart. Die!
And whether it did, or it was buried so deep she couldn't
feel it anymore, she put the Frenchman from her mind,
locking him behind the shutter to forget him, too, and
then returned to stroking her worn photograph in the
sweltering heat, missing Sam and the kids, mourning C.D.,
and scrubbing General Amid's quarters, longing for her
weekly bath and swearing she'd trade her eyeteeth for a
hamburger, soda or bottle of skin lotion. And conditioner
for her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut and indulged in
heartfelt longing. She'd give a molar for one squirt of
conditioner. Just one...
While she hadn't dared to hope, she had put herself in
General Amid's presence as often as possible, in case he
wanted to send her back to the market. The medical workers
still being around was highly unlikely, but it wasn't
impossible.
Yet whether or not they remained close by quickly became a
moot point. The general watched her with an odd look in
his eyes, but he never sent her back to the market.
Instead, just before she was to return to her cell one
night, he stopped her. "Katie," he said. "I am to be
transferred to a new prison soon."
Fear sliced through her heart like a knife and she had to
fight to find her voice. "Will you take me with you?"
Regret burned in his eyes. "I am sorry. That is not
possible."
Disappointment raised terror, and tears clogged her
throat. She couldn't speak, and so nodded. He would leave,
and things would return to the way they had been before he
had learned what was happening to her. Oh, God. I can't
stand it again. I can't.
"I am sorry," he whispered. "I have done all I can do to
protect you."
He had. Here, and maybe in sending her to the market.
Maybe he'd meant for her to be seen. On the chance he had,
she felt gratitude swell and her chin quiver. She cleared
her throat to hide it. "Thank you."
He, too, had given up hope. She was lost. Lost, screwed
and defeated.
Knowing it, she walked the dark pathway back to her cell.
The defeat had her despairing, but even more than
despairing, she was terrified.
Long after midnight that night โ exactly two weeks after
she'd seen the Frenchman in the market โ Katie paced her
four-foot wide cell until her feet ached, and then
collapsed onto her cot, exhausted. Her stomach growled.
She hadn't been fed since yesterday, and hadn't been able
to steal anything from General Amid's. If he ever noticed
food missing, he never mentioned it. But she didn't flaunt
stealing his food in his face, either.
Holding the photo over her heart, she ignored her rumbling
stomach and closed her eyes.
For the first night since she'd seen the Frenchman, she
didn't drift to sleep seeing his face in her mind. Every
other night, she had alternated between praying he'd think
of her and the thought of her would nag at him until he
did something to help her, and cursing him for not being
more aware, seeing her and doing something to set her
free. But this night, she didn't think of him at all.
General Amid, the man whose protection had kept her alive
and safe, whose food had kept her from starving to death,
was leaving. A new commander would take his place and
things would return to what they had been.
She would be dead within a month. If God was merciful,
sooner...
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