B009G3EPMQ EBOK by Anthony Flacco, Jessica Buchanan, Erik Landemalm Page B

organization had been providing for these communities for years, not only had that not been sufficient to prevent this; it had attracted it to us.
    Once the rain finally subsided, I lifted the mat to have a look around, only to see the barrel of a Kalishnikov pointed at my face. “Sleep!” the gunman yelled again.
    Okay, got it. He wasn’t talking about actually sleeping, he just wanted me to lie down and stay down. He gestured with the barrel to indicate I should get back under the mat, whether it was raining or not. I lay back down and remained that way for the next hour or so, too frightened to move.
    My body and brain only allowed me to stay in a condition of abject terror for a fairly short time, then the level dropped down to a persistent, low-grade animal fear. I guess our instincts carry ancestral knowledge that if you’re still alive after the initial confrontation, you need to relax enough to work on your chances of survival.
    So the fear eventually gave way to an extremely prickly form of boredom, and I dared to lift the mat a second time. There was immediate yelling and gesturing with gun barrels to communicate that I was to remain in that spot. Their meaning was clear enough,but fear or no fear, I was shivering from the damp chill. I asked for a blanket or for another scarf.
    Oddly enough, one of the men actually gave me his jacket. It helped a bit, which was fortunate, since we ended up “sleeping” there for hours. He didn’t have to do it. That was something. It was a human spark. If there’s one you can find another. Or at least you can try.
    When I was allowed to rise again much later, a man named Abdi introduced himself. It’s a common name in that region, and there was no way of knowing what an important figure Abdi was going to become, or to glimpse the depth of psycopathy he was able to display. But at least Abdi spoke some basic English, and I was grateful to finally meet a kidnapper I could communicate with in ideas beyond the simplicity of rough orders and frightened obedience. He looked to be somewhere between thirty-eight and forty-five, with a full beard. When Abdi raised his hands to gesture above his head, as he often did, his shirt lifted up to reveal a bullet scar on the right side of his stomach. So there he was: jagged bullet scar, volatile temper, red eyes, Abdi was a player.
    Abdi grinned, devoid of humor and full of malice. He assured me they were not going to kill us—but they wanted money, big money, too. When he spoke, he showed teeth stained mossy green from chewing khat leaves. My problem with him was that it wasn’t clear if he was actually in charge of our destiny. He might be speaking for genuine authority, but he might not. When these men were full of khat, they all loved to strut and preen.
    He could just be some guy who speaks a little English and likes to brag. I had to let it go. After all, whatever Abdi’s level of authority might be, we had been told to wait for a verdict from the “Chairman,” and Abdi wasn’t him.
    •  •  •
    Nature has its own way of setting priorities. In spite of all the shock delivered by these terrifying events on that first day, for me the biggest surprise didn’t come from my captors. It came from the fact that the cramps that caused me to text Erik early that morning and tell him we weren’t pregnant had abruptly ceased.
    Boy, the news was really pouring in. Not only had I been kidnapped by belligerent quasimilitia thugs, it now appeared I might actually be pregnant after all.
    I decided to assume I was, as if I needed further motive to look for a way to escape alive. Therefore my waiting game took on layers, as you can imagine: worried boredom, smothered resentment, badly concealed outrage.
    The only way to wash was to use the same bottled drinking water we had to conserve. The feeling of being hungry to get clean grew while the hours melted into the following day. I was glad to at least have my little bag with my thyroid