14
The next time he comes, he comes with a fresh bucket and more food. Lucky Charms and milk. He sets the bowl down in front of me. I sit and shiver. Cold. Afraid. Still reeling from what he last said to me. Too tired to move. Too wired to sleep. I stare at the bowl. I feel sick just looking at it.
"Eat it," he says.
I shake my head, eyes on the floor, hugging my own arms.
"Eat it. You need to keep your strength up."
"What for?"
"I need to keep you alive."
"Thought you said you were gonna kill me."
"It's not time yet."
I sit there. He crouches in front of me and waits. He pushes the bowl closer. I sit there and do nothing. So he stands and walks out of the room.
He returns a few minutes later. A knife in his hand. A big knife. The kind they use for hunting around here—if I'm stil
