Page 8 of Ned

She’d been lost in the wilderness before and had lived. If she had to, she could do it again.

Probably.

But in truth, even if she did get away, where would she go?

So, as she’d sat here for the past two days, she’d come up with a plan.

One that just might work.

A knock at the door, like it might be room service, and it opened without her responding to one of her young guards, dressed in a pair of wool pants, boots, and a wool sweater.

Ah, young Slava. She didn’t know Russian, but he’d talked to her a bit in broken English when she first arrived. As if sensing her fear. Sweet, in a captor sort of way.

She smiled back, in a cowering kidnappee sort of way.

They had a fake relationship, her acting grateful when he brought her kasha or raw bacon or some kind of beet soup. What little English he spoke had netted her his name and the sense that he was in some militia group, given the badge on his arm—not unlike something the Hitler Youth might have worn.

So, yeah, that was comforting.

He always arrived armed, with a hip holster and his simple flip cell phone in his shirt pocket.

Now, he entered as she slid off the bed. Over two weeks in the same clothing had her smelling pretty ripe, but at least she was warm, still dressed in her fleece and jeans, her wool socks, and boots.

Maybe not warm enough for subzero temperatures, but it hadn’t snowed since she arrived, and the snow on her windowsill in the bathroom had melted, so that boded well.

“Good morning, Slava,” she said as he brought in a bowl of corn kasha, a dab of butter on top, and a bowl of sugar on the tray along with a cup of tea.

She eyed the open door, and as he set down the tray he said, “No try run.”

“No try run,” she said, and wrapped her arms around herself.

He stood up and she picked up the tea.

Here went nothing.

She sipped it, gasped and jerked it away. “Hot, hot!”

And then the tea just happened to spill on Slava.

He cursed, stepped back—

“Sorry! I’m sorry—” She picked up the napkin on the tray—thoughtful of them to think of it—and stepped toward him, wiping his shirt.

He held up his hands, then grabbed her wrist. “Nyet—nyet!”

She jerked the towel away with her other hand. “Sorry.”

He glared at her, then gave her a shove.

She landed in the nearby straight chair, the towel on her lap, her hands raised. Quivered her lip.

His glare softened. “Ladna,” he said. Then pointed to her food. “Eat.”

She nodded and pulled the tray toward her.

He watched as she layered sugar—there wasn’t enough to choke it down, but she made a show of it. Took a bite, nodded. “Thank you.”

“Nasdarovia,” he said and headed out of the door. She heard the lock turn. Footsteps.