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“Why can’t they ever hold hostages in clean rooms with en suite bathrooms?” I ask out loud, just in case they’re monitoring me from somewhere. “It’s not that I can’t handle a little discomfort. Sleeping on concrete isn’t going to break me, so would it really be so hard to toss a blanket and a pillow in here? A children’s potty training toilet would also be fine. Sheesh. They’re not even very expensive.”

I go on like that, speaking nonsense, for another hour before I decide that no one’s monitoring me.

It’s a little hard for me, as I watch the sun set. I’ve peed three times, but less and less each time. No one has brought food. No one has brought water. My throat’s dry—drier because of all the talking I stupidly did—and I’ve found not a single idea on which to formulate an escape. I don’t have any tools I can use to attack or disarm anyone who does enter. And I still know nothing more about what Leonid wanted, or why I’m even here.

I’ve dozed off when the sound of the door rattling open wakes me. I shoot to my feet, blinking rapidly to clear my foggy brain.

When the door does open, it’s not Leonid.

“Who are you?” I can’t help glaring. “What do you want?”

The man sets a few items on the ground and kicks them toward me. Two bottles of water. A prepackaged meal—crackers and cheese that kids usually eat at school. That’s it.

No utensils.

Nothing made of metal or even hard plastic.

Sadly, Leonid’s hotheaded reaction before does not appear to have extended to his current treatment.

“Who are you?” the man asks in Russian.

Does that mean I’m in Russia now? I know Aleksandr’s from there. Unfortunately, my Russian isn’t especially good. Unlike Mirdza, I didn’t suck up to Mom unbearably. I spent most of my visits to Russia sulking and pretending I didn’t speak a word.

I do know my Russian swearwords pretty well, so when I tell the guy where he can go and what he can do, I’m reasonably certain he understands. Even so, he’s half-smiling as he walks out the door.

Four days pass like this, with only two meals being provided each day—both boxes of prepackaged crackers and cheese—and two water bottles. Nothing’s made available for my use other than the drain, and let me tell you. The room is not smelling its best.

That’s actually what gives me the idea.

I’m not able to do much about freedom from here. I’ve located no ways to escape and had no ideas of how to incapacitate my food delivery service. I’m not getting enough food, so I’m slowly weakening, day by day. It doesn’t bode well for my odds at escape, not unless I can change something major.

I’ve imagined lots of ways I might die, but slowly starving to death in a hovel that might or might not be in Russia has never been on the list. It’s embarrassing, honestly. I mean, I don’t suffer from any delusions that I’m important, but I figured if I died, it would at least be in a blaze of glory.

Seeing as someone has to come inside twice a day and give me food, and I’m assuming that at some point, someone is going to interrogate me, and since I’m already pretty gross. . .I decide to actively make it worse. What gives me the idea?

It’s a little embarrassing to admit that the kids’ cartoon Finding Nemo is my inspiration. Those fish fouled up that tank and it had to be cleaned. I’m not going to escape as things are, but if someone has to get me out to rinse me off, maybe I’ll find some kind of way out. So I actively stop trying to rinse my poop down the drain. I pee in the corner. I smear my poop on the walls. All over myself.

Which makes me gag.

So I use the vomit too. It’s almost ten hours before I become so used to the smell that I stop suffering from it. I’m honestly having second thoughts about my plan when the man with the short-cut blond hair walks through the door. He doubles back immediately and drops the water and crackers, covering his nose and mouth with his hand. The swear words he uses in Russian are inventive, and I make a mental note of one combination in particular that I really might use next time I’m angry.

“What did you do?” He lifts his head and peers around the corner, his eyes widening in alarm. “What—why would you—”

“My stomach.” I grab my belly and moan. “Sick. I sick.” My Russian’s not great, so I lean into my limitations. Plus, hopefully the more they think I can’t communicate, the more understanding they’ll be when I refuse to give them information.

The man kicks the packaged cheese and crackers through the doorway, and then he shoves the water bottles, too. He closes the door again so quickly that I wonder how tough he can possibly be. I mean, sure, it smells, but really, it’s not that big of a deal. I’ve been in here all day.

But an hour later he’s back, and he’s carrying a blindfold, a pair of handcuffs, and a rope.

Jackpot.

He blindfolds me, cuffs me, and ties the rope in a noose around my neck. “Don’t try anything weird.”

“Leonid’s letting me out for a walk?” I ask in Latvian. “How generous.”

I can’t see, but I can feel, and I don’t have to walk very far before the concrete turns into hard-packed dirt. Blondie shoves me from behind, and I fall to my knees. I hear the squeaking of a water valve being turned on, and then I’m being sprayed.

It’s not fun.