Page 29 of Emerald

9

Sloane

Pummeling an answer out of someone never works.

Pamela Meyer

Iwake to the sound of the cell door opening once more.

It’s extremely disorienting being in this windowless room without a clock or a watch. I have no idea if I’ve been sleeping one hour or ten.

I sit up, stiff from the threadbare mattress. I have a fantastic bed at home in my apartment. It’s my biggest luxury: a thick down comforter, expensive sheets, a cooling pillow . . .

There are a lot of things I’m already starting to miss, being stuck in this cell.

Ivan comes through the door once more, carrying a bowl of something that smells delicious, like cinnamon and nutmeg. Of course, I haven’t eaten in a while, so I’m far from picky. Almost anything would smell good right now.

The earthenware bowl is held in his left hand. In his right, he’s carrying a black leather bag, something like a doctor’s kit. I don’t like the look of that nearly as much.

I consider standing, but then I’d have to choose between draping the blanket over me like a toga and being naked once more. Both seem like embarrassing options. So I remain seated on the mattress, the blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

“Did you get a good sleep?” Ivan asks.

He keeps his face stern, but I can tell there are hidden reserves of humor under that harsh exterior. He’s aware of the ridiculousness of his question. He knows he’s goading me into a saucy answer.

“I prefer memory-foam to straw and canvas,” I tell him. “But I’ll still give you three stars in my Airbnb review.”

That twitch of his lips again. I’ll get him to smile eventually.

He sits down on the ground across from me, heedless of whether the dirt floor might mark his slacks. He sets the leather bag on his right side, and puts the bowl down on his left, just out of my reach.

He sees me eyeing the food.

“Hungry?” he says.

“A little,” I reply, lifting my chin.

“Our chef made this. Slow-cooker oatmeal, with cinnamon and heavy cream.”

He picks up the bowl, holding it between us but not offering it to me yet.

I notice there’s no spoon.

He scoops up a dollop of the oatmeal on his index and middle fingers. He holds it out to me.

I stare at him, confused.

“Go ahead,” he says.

He wants me to lick it off his fingers.

I know what he’s trying to do. Taking my clothes. Making me eat out of his hand like a dog.

He’s trying to break me down. Trying to humiliate me.

I could refuse to eat.

But I really am hungry.

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