Method 15 33 Read Online Free PDF Page B

the other mornings, crept up to my bed and shook me until I “woke.” Of course I’d been fake-sleeping, as if I hadn’t been working all night again. He dropped the diabolical china plate by my chest and barked that if I had to “use the shitter” I had to go “right now.” He also said he’d come in and strangle me if I moved an inch or made “even a ping of noise” before lunchtime. “You girls are a dime a dozen. I’m not taking any chances with you, bitch.”
    Good morning to you too, asshole
.
    I took his offer to go to the bathroom because I had determined to take whatever he offered. I did not want to turn down any possibility to collect assets or knowledge. Also, I had taken the offer on Day 9, and I did not want any change to our established routine. The slightest deviation could be a serious threat to my list of ordered assets and might alter my forming Escape/Revenge Plan, which, as you know, I had named at that point, “15.” Any branch from the path I had set upon could have been fatal. And while fatality was surely in store, it was not I who would be death’s prize.
    After quick marching me to and from my morning relief, he returned me to detention and placed the bucket next to me, just as he had on Day 9.
    Jabbing his finger in my face, he ordered, “Use this, but use it on the bed if you have to piss. Do not get off this bed.”
    Fortunately, I had returned the handle to the bucket only ten minutes before his arrival.
    As the heat rose, the Kitchen People began with the electric mixer, as they had on Day 9. The sound whirred me into a state of near hypnosis for a full hour. I rubbed my growing stomach with the palms of my flat hands, mesmerized by a heel or fist that pushed back to meet me.
Baby, baby, I love you, baby
. Then my floor began to vibrate, which movement was accompanied by a low humming. I concluded this had to be a ceiling fan in the kitchen. With the fan came wafts of roasted chicken, bacon, brownies, rosemary, and most welcome, the scent of fresh bread.
    Ladies, do you know your food is for me? Do you know I ama kidnapped girl?
I didn’t think so. Why else the early morning charade with my captor? Also, his phlegm-filled wheezing accompanied his agitated panther pacing outside my door; him there, my nervous warden. But only on the days they came. On the days the Kitchen People did not come, I don’t know where he spent his time in between hurling food at me and collecting that damned plate. Still, certain factors led me to doubt the Kitchen People.
    Only their muffled voices found a way to my straining ear. I caught some words, such as “hand” and “pan.” Their female tones, one raspy and old, one light and breezy, revealed a mini-hierarchy; one clearly bossed the other.
    The Kitchen People’s pattern, so far, was to come on the seventh day, which made sense. By studying the smells and the sequence of my meals, I could easily support a hypothesis that they came on Tuesdays to cook my meals for the coming week.
    On the morning of Day 16, I almost shouted for help. But I needed more evidence to prove their innocence, and so with Asset #11, patience, I lay in wait to judge them. I had doubt about the level of their involvement because I didn’t understand why he didn’t bind and gag me on the days of their visits.
Could be, like with the van, he’s stupid or lazy or both
. Still. I also had doubt because on Day 9, he greeted them by saying, “We really like the food.”
We? So they know there is someone else? Here?
When I heard this, I realized they had cooked my meals for the first week in captivity. Seeing the timeline in thin air, I calculated the days between data points:
    Day 2 = Kitchen People cook first week’s food while I was in van
    + 7 days
    Day 9 = Kitchen People
    + 7 days
    Day 16 = Kitchen People
    With this, it was easy to postulate their intervals at one week apart, and so, I could plan around this predictable cycle.
    When he greeted them on Day 16, he