It was 4:10. Who ever thought that the simple act of telling time would matter so much? And yet it gives me a tremendous sense of comfort. In my present world, day and night cease to matter. Time passes in a vague sense of nonreality. So when he paused outside the bathroom door, setting down the pail of toiletries and readying the key to lock me in, I’d looked around and spotted the wall clock for the first time. A huge wave of relief swept through me. The tiniest awareness of something, anything, that related to life as I’d known it, was a gift. What a fool I’ve been to take those gifts for granted. Not anymore. When he came to my room, announcing that I could have my bath, I almost wept with joy. Even the sight of the combat knife he was clutching didn’t make me flinch, nor did the pressure of it at my throat as he led me outside my prison.
