Still Nothing

I am sitting here slumped in a booth wearing my plain gray hoodie, hoping to achieve anonymity. My phone is locked in the trunk of my car. I can’t risk the distraction. I’ll use the clock on the laptop. This laptop I borrowed is filthy, but it works and the wifi is strong, much stronger than the coffee. The waitress just brought me the coffee I ordered.

The only thing to do now is write. Write like my life depends on it.

There’s a madman holding my family hostage in a warehouse somewhere. He wants me to write him a novel one chapter per week. I’m more of a short story, poetry gal, so this is a bit of a stretch. The deal is, I send him the chapter and he sends me a proof of life polaroid of my husband and daughter holding a copy of the New York Times.

He’s a real sicko. If I fail to send the chapter by midnight on Friday, he sends me a finger. How many fingers have I gotten so far?

Bold of you to ask.