“Yes,” he says emphatically. “Come on. Sit up a little, but don’t move too fast.”
“I don’t understand,” I say again.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why are you being kind to me?”
He places the water glass on the tray in front of me, then sits back in his seat, the smile gone. In fact, his face shuts off altogether, and this bothers me more than the offer of food. I sit up without thinking, as if the action will return the smile to his face.
The smile does not return.
“I’m not being kind to you,” he says. “This is called being a regular person. I’m not going to let you starve.”
I swallow, surprised to find that my throat isn’t dry. Pain radiates all throughout my body, hunger clawing at my insides. I stare at the table of food, allowing myself to believe, for the first time, that this might really be happening. I shake my head. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
“You never answered my question, by the way,” James says. I look up at the sudden shift in his tone. His shoulders seem tighter, his eyes tenser. “How long has it been since you ate a proper meal?”
My heart thunders in my chest at that question, and when the monitor mirrors this change James looks up at the machine and I panic. I force myself down into nothingness, disconnecting my body from my mind, crushing what’s left of me into dust. I need to pull myself together and remain that way. I can’t afford any more missteps.
When my heart rate slows I look at him and say, “Three days.”
“Three days,” he repeats.
I nod, as if this is normal. “I haven’t eaten in three days.”
His face has gone cold. His voice is hard. “And what did you eat three days ago?”
Mushrooms.“I don’t understand why this is relevant.”
“Look, will you please just drink the water?” he snaps, his composure breaking.
His anger surprises me.
I look at him, then around the room, my eyes flicking over everything in the bright, sterile space. I consider the situation. This is clearly a holding cell refitted with a hospital bed.There’s a massive, generic painting of a summer field taking up most of one wall, behind which is likely some kind of observational deck. I have no doubt that I’m being watched by any number of people right now. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but James’s physical recovery points to a lapse in time long enough to accommodate recuperation and cooperation. He’s had hours to shower, to eat, to sleep, to restore the healthy glow in his skin. This means he’s had time to reconvene with his officials, which means they know what he knows. He hasn’t come to visit me without authorization; he came in here with a plan.
This food is not a mercy, I realize with some relief.
It’s a test.
I tell myself: A normal, hungry person with no ulterior motives would not be afraid of eating freely offered food.
I reach for the water glass with an unsteady hand, spilling it slightly as I lift it to my lips. I take a sip and close my eyes, savoring it. The water is room temperature, easy to drink, gentle on my throat, but it takes me by surprise to realize that I’m not actually thirsty. I look up at the ancient IV bags and the answer is obvious: they’ve been giving me intravenous fluids. That’s why I feel better. Clearer. Lighter.
I put the glass down.
James pushes a plate of chicken in front of me, the meat already cut into bite-sized pieces, as if I were a child. The sight of it does something to me, threatens to drown me.
“It’s probably cold now,” he says, apologetic.
As if I would care. I look up at him, trying to keep my heart rate steady.“You’re just going to watch me eat?”
“Yes.”
This is a kind of torture I did not anticipate. Everything about this moment feels charged and strange, and fear clenches in my gut. My hunger is something I can only control when I’m starving. Sometimes the starvation is a mercy, stripping out my insides so completely it’s easier for me to shut down, remain empty. I have only faded memories of being full. I don’t know what my body will do when I feed it, and this unknown scares me.
I pick up the fork with trepidation, aware of the many eyes that must be watching this moment. My hand trembles a little, and I hide this by spearing the meat more forcefully than I’d like, then lifting it to my lips with hesitation. My mouth waters automatically, the savory scents of fat and salt making me ill with longing and guilt.
Rosa, what does meat taste like?
