“That’s just the electrolytes, darling.” He kissed my forehead, unhurried, and I could have wept at how convincing his tenderness still was, how completely I would have believed it an hour ago.

“Sleep now.

I’ll come wake you a little later, and we’ll get you some fresh air.

It’ll help.”

He stood, and he left, and the door clicked shut behind him — and I opened my eyes on the ceiling, wide awake, my mind burning clear and cold, and I sat up in the dark.

Here is the thing no one tells you about pretending to be helpless in front of someone who wants you dead: it is the hardest performance in the world, because every animal instinct you have is screaming at you to do the opposite — to run, to fight, to get your hands up, to put distance between you and the threat.

And you can do none of it.