A Girl Named Digit by Annabel Monaghan Page B

phone?”
    Hmmm. Yes. “No, I left it at home.” I was on my way to some mystery hideout for God knew how long. I wasn’t about to relinquish my oak tree photo and end up in a straitjacket. I made a mental note to put it on airplane mode as soon as we got there. I leaned back against the elevator wall and reached into my back pocket to switch it to vibrate.
    After about thirty minutes, the elevator stopped and started to move up toward sea level. When the doors opened, we were in a windowless, rectangular room, maybe twelve by eight feet. The security guy held the doors open for us to cross the threshold and started to show us around. There were two mismatched upholstered chairs in front of an old TV, a small table between the chairs, and literally nothing else. With a flourish, he opened a small cupboard with two deflated twin-size blow-up mattresses and two sleeping bags. “Would you like turndown service now, or would you like to do it yourself later?”
    Ah, everyone’s a comedian, even the security guy. He and John shared a little chuckle at his joke, like this was our honeymoon suite at some fine hotel. It was actually pretty funny, but in spite of myself I turned bright red. I hadn’t quite thought this whole thing through logistically. Was I going to be shacked up with John in a windowless room, sleeping next to him and sharing a bathroom? Was this even legal? I’m sure my parents must have thought of this and had decided to trust him. But based on what, a thirty-minute meeting?
    They were both looking at me, no longer laughing and potentially reading my mind. “Farrah, we are only going to be here for a week or so. I know it’s grim, but the only thing that matters is that you are safe.” John sounded like he was reading from a script.
    “Sure. And do we get rations of dried food and Tang?” I was mostly trying to change the subject, but it was a legitimate concern.
    Security guy smiled. “No, that part’s pretty good. The elevator car that brought us here will come by three times a day, unmanned, and deliver food and documents as necessary. John, you can just text special requests to 4352, and depending on who’s running the kitchen, you might get lucky. Other stuff like toothpaste and clean underwear should be in your survival bags.”
    I was red again.
Did that guy say “underwear”? Am I going to have to discuss my personal hygiene with these people?
My mind raced through all the possibilities for mortification.
    Security guy shook John’s hand as he got back into the elevator, a bellhop just looking for a tip from the newlyweds. “Nighty-night.” Ugh.
    John could tell I was about to freak out, so he tried to make everything seem really normal. “Wanna watch TV? Or should we just go to sleep? I’ll put it on and then see if I can get in touch with the kitchen. Do you want a snack or anything?” I could tell by the tone in his voice, sort of the way you talk to a puppy, that he was terrified that I was going to start to cry again.
    I got my mattress, pressed the green button for automatic blow-up, lay down, and pretended to sleep until I eventually did.

If Reality Wants to Get in Touch, it Knows Where I am
     
    So that’s how I ended up in this warehouse, sitting on this understuffed chair, watching the news break about my kidnapping on an antique TV. John was sitting on the other chair, taking in the rest of the five o’clock news. He switched the channel to another network to catch the tail end of my mom’s dramatic exit back into the house.
    “She seems more like a Farrah than you do.”
    “Everyone seems more like a Farrah than I do. It’s called irony, and the best part is that she’s named Rebecca. Wouldn’t I have made a better Rebecca?”
    “Natalie.”
    “What?”
    “You seem more like a Natalie to me. Like Natalie Wood or Natalie Cole, a little more mysterious.”
    That’s the last word I’d ever use to describe myself because for the past eight hours every thought I