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I don’t think I’ve ever considered Dobermanns to be a particularly cuddly breed, but I’ve never really put much stock in what a breed says about a specific dog to begin with. I know better. Growing up, I often helped around in the waiting room while I waited for my mother and did my homework. Animals soothe me, though my place is too small and my bank balance too scarce to house one. I think often about being surrounded by animals in various states of distress, learning before I could read that a calm hand and a steady voice could bring almost anything back from the edge. Whatever is wrong with Buzzcut—as I’m now calling him, since we haven’t exchanged names—he’s at least a good dog dad.

These dogs aren’t even close to distressed. They’re pampered, freely curious, incredibly alert. Very well-trained. Or so I gather from the fact that neither of them has touched the tray of food on the coffee. They had to have registered its presence long before I do.

When my stomach rumbles, I wonder if dogs ever experience it.

I stare at the tray. It boasts a plate of eggs, toast, and a stack of sausages that feels like overkill. There’s a glass of water beside the arrangement, alongside a checker-patterned cloth napkin folded into an isosceles triangle. My mind is blank. I don’t know what to do with any of this. Who folds napkins for their hostage?

What’s the taxonomy of my situation? Is there a flowchart for this? If abducted from street, proceed to box A. If sold at auction, proceed to box B. If currently sitting on captor’s couch while his dog licks your hand, consult appendix.

I force myself to focus. I can’t spiral. I stare at the food again.

Is it poisoned? I consider the conundrum with the clinical detachment of a woman who has taught toxicology as a subset of AP Biology for three years. What would be the purpose? He purchased me, like real estate. Do people often buy houses just to set them on fire? I read the news religiously and watch crime documentaries compulsively. I’ve never heard of any such case.

Surely, I reason, if he wanted me dead, there are faster and significantly cheaper methods anyway. He doesn’t have to serve me an American breakfast as a last meal.

Not to mention… I’m obviously starving. Saliva pools in my mouth like a Pavlovian impulse. Whatever they injected me with has burned through every calorie I had in reserve, and my blood sugar is so low I can feel my heart sinking. If I don’t eat, I won’t have the energy to think, and if I can’t think, I can’t survive this. And I have to survive this. I have to.

An influx of rigor steals the tray and places it in my lap.

The eggs are offensively perfect. They’re still warm. The tray can’t have been placed by me too long ago. I eat as swiftly as I can while still chewing an appropriate number of times. In fact, I’m halfway through the toast when it strikes me that there are no clocks. My watch is gone from my wrist—taken at some point between the sidewalk in Roslindale and this couch, along with my phone, my bag, my shoes, and every tether I had to my actual life. I have no idea what time it is. I have no idea what day it is, for that matter!

The dog at my feet—the bolder one, the face-licker—rests its chin on my knee. I scratch behind its ear and it groans with a satisfaction so earnest it almost makes me cry. I am not a crier. My mother did not raise me to be a crier. I am not going to cry over a dog, or any of the rest of it. I’m going to eat my toast and pet this animal and get my brain online until I figure out what the hell is happening to me. I will keep my shit together.

The door blows open and threatens to shatter the illusion I’ve been building up. It’s Buzzcut.

My hand freezes at his dog’s ear.

He’s changed his shirt since the last time I saw him, what I have to presume was last night. Now, he sports a black henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, unveiling his heavily tattooed forearms and the ropes of muscle they are composed of. Dear God. He’s carrying a mug of steaming something, cosplaying domesticity.

“Div likes you,” he observes in lieu of a greeting. “And he doesn’t take a shine to people so quickly.”

“Div,” I echo the unusual name, clearing my throat of any residual crumbs. The dog’s ear twitches at the sound of his name. “And the other one?”

“Mara.”

The dogs look identical. I put two and two together and determine that the names go together. “Why those names?”

If he’s taken aback by the question, he doesn’t show it as he settles into the armchair across from me and takes a sip from his mug. With my face heating, I realize I was expecting him to bring the beverage over to ply me with—but he doesn’t. “They’re plucked from Slavic mythology, which is an interest of mine. Div is a storm spirit. Mara is a nightmare deity.”

A hysterical laugh tickles the back of my throat but never makes it to my mouth. “You named your dogs after a storm and a nightmare?”

“Sure.”

I look at him for a beat, searching for some crack in whatever façade he’s presenting me with. He’s a person, too, isn’t he? No matter what, we are born the same. There is no such thing as an evil baby. There is humanity in all of us. Any loss of it comes long after birth. If evil can be learned, inherent humanity doesn’t have to be dismembered. I have to try.

“I want to know what’s going on,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I expect. I’d be impressed with myself if my pulse weren’t roaring in my ears right now. “I want to know why I’m here, and what you want from me, and how long you intend to keep me.”

He watches me over the rim of his mug. Those grey eyes are fathomless in a way that makes my foot anxiously twitch. He assesses me and makes no secret of it.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I blurt. “Fact for fact. You give me one, I give you one. That’s more than reasonable.”

“Are you negotiating with me?”

“I am,” I say, trying to imitate the shameless surety of his tone. All the while, I hate that the rational part of my brain—the scientist, the teacher, the woman who deals in data—is telling me that information is currency, and right now, I’m bankrupt. I’m offering the trade, but he’s holding most of the cards. We both know it.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll bite. Let’s start with your name.”

That’s easy enough. “Meera Gallagher,” I say.