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Alex screamed out as they came to take her, and then suddenly she was silent. There was nothing I could do to help. It was horrible. She was returned silently, most likely still sleeping, drugged. I know this because my turn was next. When I awoke from the exam, my clothing was gone and I was wearing nothing more than cotton panties and a tank-top, not my own. Under closer examination, I realized they had neatly trimmed my pubic hair. Even worse, there was a small bandage covering an incision on my thigh. What had they done to me? I wept at the thought that the same had been done to Alex.The days of captivity continued. Each day we were told to shower, given clean undergarments (but no real clothing), and fed meals through a panel in the door. But why were we here? I could hear other women, in other rooms. Some cried, others yelled in defiance. At first I had assumed Alex and I had been taken for ransom. Yet with so many of us held captive I began to think of another possibility, a. Mainly he keeps to himself. Something about him disturbs me—the way he walks, how his calculating blue eyes take in everything around him in one rapid swoop, the weird hours he keeps—but my landlady says he’s a Good Guy.I catch him one day, helping her climb the stairs. He doesn’t speak to her but he gives her a smile before he walks away.I wouldn’t know what a Good Guy looks like, but I’ll take her word for it.Everything goes in slow motion—cars passing in the street, mosquitoes buzzing in my ear at night, summer rain tinkling down whenever it gets too hot. Nothing much is happening, but that’s how I prefer my summers.On dry nights, I sit outside with the kids that live in my building on dry nights, teasing them and playing games. It’s the most fun I have some days.On this particular night, I’m smiling while a few girls play jump-rope and pretending not to notice the new guy as he ambles up the sidewalk.The sun just went down but the heat is still hazy and cloying. Little droplets.
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