Ricky shifts against the cuffs, yanking harder. “Why do you have oils? What are you gonna do to me? Come on, man, why do you have oils?”
I shrug, pouring a little into a dish. “Just be patient. You’ll find out.” Then, just to fuck with him, I add, “And keep an open mind — you might even like it.”
A strangled sound comes from the bed. It sounds like the yelp of a strangled animal.
Ignoring him, keeping my focus on the task at hand, I take out my biggest, sharpest chef’s knife. The blade gleams under the cabin lights — stainless steel, freshly sharpened; I turn it over in my hand, admiring the edge.
Behind me, Ricky full-on wheezes. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. What are you gonna do with that knife? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick or something?”
I flick my gaze up, expression blank. “Be patient. You’ll see.”
His entire body stiffens.
Then I chop the vegetables, my knife making an ominous thunk into the cutting board with each heavy chop.
Ricky freezes, mid-breath.
“…What the hell,” he mutters.
I grab a cast iron pan and put it onto the stove, turn the flame on high, and smile at Ricky.
“I don’t like that smile. What the fuck are you smiling for? Why are you smiling?” He says.
Ignoring him, I keep working — slicing the cucumber into thin rounds, dicing the eggplant, peeling the carrot with methodical precision. I fetch lettuce from my fridge, along with a tomato, and prep both, then mix the salad together, whisk the oil and vinegar into a dressing, and drizzle it over the greens.
Then I grab two steaks from my fridge, pat them dry, season them liberally with salt and pepper, and throw them into the screaming-hot cast iron pan.
The cabin fills with the rich scent of seared beef.
I hear Ricky inhale deeply. Then he says, “…Wait. What are you doing?”
After a quick check with the tip of my finger, I take the steaks out of the pan, plate them along with the salad, and bring both plates to the table near the bed. I set one down in front of Ricky, the other in front of me.
Then I sit.
Ricky stares at the plate. Stares at me. Then he shakes his head. “What the fuck is happening?”
I grab my fork and knife, cutting into the steak. “Shut up.”
He blinks. “That’s your explanation? Shut up?”
I chew, swallow, then fix him with a look. “Yeah.”
His hands flex, like he’s trying to keep from losing it. “Okay. Fine. But can you at least tell me why I’m here?”
I set my utensils down. “What drugs are you on?”
He stares at me. “The fuck does that have to do with anything?”
I give him a hard look. “Don’t lie to me. I can see the track marks on your arm. Smelled it on you when I carried your unconscious ass in here. What are you on?”
His jaw clenches. Then, after a moment—he sighs. “Heroin.”
I nod. “Figured. You stink like it.”
His eyes narrow. “Why do you care?”
I take another bite of steak, chewing slow. “Because I promised someone important I wouldn’t kill you.”
