“I’m supposed to feed you,” he says finally, voice cracking on the last word.
“Hard to do that when my hands are tied behind my back.”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I could…I don’t know. Hold the sandwich for you?”
“Like a baby bird?” I let the disdain drip from my voice. “No, thank you very much.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“You could untie one of my hands.”
His eyes go wide. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? I’m still tied to a chair that’s bolted to the floor. I’m not going anywhere.” I let my head fall back against the chair, projecting a confidence I absolutely don’t feel. “Unless you’re scared I’m going to somehow overpower you one-handed?”
Color floods his cheeks, likely equal parts embarrassment and wounded pride.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Then prove it.” I keep my voice calm, reasonable. “One hand. Just long enough for me to eat. You can tie it back up after.”
He hesitates, glancing toward the door like he’s expecting Aaron to burst through at any moment.
“Look,” I say, gentling my tone. “What’s your name?”
“…Kyle.”
“Kyle. I’m not going to try anything. I just want to eat my incredibly shitty gas station sandwich with a modicum of dignity. That’s all.”
There is another long pause as Kyle considers. I’m half-expecting him to walk out without feeding me at all, so I have to hide my surprise when he crosses the room and starts fumbling with the knots behind my back.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force myself to stay relaxed. The rope loosens around my left wrist, just enough for me to slide my hand free. The sensation of pins and needles explodes through my fingers as blood flow slowly returns.
Kyle steps back quickly and thrusts the sandwich into my lap.
Unwrapping the thing one-handed isn’t exactly easy, but I swallow the complaint. Smashed into the plastic might be the saddest excuse for a sandwich I’ve ever seen—two slices of white bread gone slightly stale, a thin layer of mystery meat that might once have been turkey, and a single leaf of wilted lettuce clinging to life out of pure spite.
I take a bite anyway.
It tastes exactly as bad as it looks.
“Thank you,” I say after forcing myself to swallow. “Can you open the water for me?”
Kyle complies, expression a mix of wariness and guilt. He acts like a dog who knows it’s done something wrong, but gets smacked with a rolled up newspaper too often to figure out exactly what that might be.
Maybe I can work with that.
“How long have you been with the Sinners?” I ask, keeping my voice conversational.
“Why do you care?”
“Making small talk. Seems polite, considering you’re the only other person here.”
Kyle’s shoulders hunch. “Just eat your food so I can go.”
“You don’t seem like the biker gang type.”
He glares at me. “What does that mean?”
