I signal Max while listening for our captors. He whales on the door and I hear only a muffled thump. He puts his ear to the door again. I start toward him, but he lifts his hand to warn me back, while pantomiming that he can hear faint sounds outside the door. I try to visualize what’s happening out there. I’ve seen hostage-takings in movies and on TV, often with my dad beside me, pointing out everything that Hollywood did wrong, and I’d ask how it really worked, and Mom and Sloane would shush us, but afterward I’d ask Dad again because I knew he couldn’t talk about his actual work, not really, and this gave him a way to share his job, and I think he appreciated that. Did you, Dad? You liked explaining it, right? You weren’t just being patient with me, because I know you were always patient, always there for us, and now you’re not and I miss you, Dad, miss you so much. It’s not getting better. A year and a half, and it’s not getting better. I squeeze my eyes shut. I think of those shows, and how the teams are arranged.
