Page 61 of The Quiet Tenant

You surrender your possessions to him. You have thought about what you’d do if you were robbed at gunpoint, and promised yourself you would give everything in exchange for your life.

“Gun? Pepper spray? Knife?”

You shake your head no.

“I’m going to check, and if I find out you lied to me, I won’t be happy.”

He pats you down. You stand still. This is the first test, and you pass. You haven’t lied to him.

“Jewelry?”

“Just what I’m wearing.”

He waits for you to remove your necklace, slips it into his pocket. In another timeline, this is where it ends. This is where he returns to the truck and you walk away slowly, then run, back to the house and back to the city. This is where you find people and tell them what happened.

In your timeline, the man with the gun throws your phone to the ground and smashes it with his boot. He waves the gun in the direction of the truck.

“Get in,” he says.

Here is what it feels like, the moment your life becomes a tragedy. The moment you’ve anticipated. When your life stops being yours and turns into a crime story.

It feels like your legs are turning to lead, your rib cage is freezing into place, your brain skimming through a list of possibilities—run, scream, comply. But mainly, it feels like nothing. The earth doesn’t split open. You are still you. It’s the world around you that changes. Everything changes but you.

Run, scream, comply. Running is out of the question. You could beat him, but you don’t run from the man with the gun. Not if there’s any chance he’ll catch you. Scream? Only scream if you know you’ll be heard. You are on a quiet road with no one else in sight. You do not scream.

Comply. You do not know, at this point, what the man wants. If you comply, there is a chance he will let you go.

You get into the truck.

He walks back to the driver’s side. Calm and smooth. The soft focus of a man used to the world obeying him.

He tucks the gun into what you guess is a holster strapped around his hips. You do not look at him directly; eye contact feels like a lethalidea. You stare straight ahead through the windshield. As you try to focus on your surroundings, something stirs in the back of your brain. You saw something. Just a few seconds ago, as you were leaning to get inside the truck. Your gaze caught on the backseat and you saw. A shovel, rope, handcuffs. A roll of trash bags.

The man presses a button. Doors lock on both sides.

All the hopeful parts of you die together.

He keeps quiet, eyes on the road. Focused. A man inhabiting a routine. Someone who has done this before.

Talk.The only thing you can do. You can’t run, you can’t scream. But you can talk. You think you can talk.

You swallow. Search for words, bland but personal. A bridge from you to him. An escape trail under a bed of leaves.

“Are you from around here?”

It’s the best you’ve got, and it gets nothing out of him.

You detach your gaze from the road and look at him.Young,you think.Not bad-looking.A man you could have met at the grocery store, in line at a coffee shop.

“You know,” you say, “you don’t have to do this.”

He ignores you still.

“Look at you,” you insist. Then, timidly, your voice fading: “Look at me.”

He doesn’t look.

You think about the stories. The podcasts. The news articles. The tabloid headlines, long and convoluted, with the most outrageous WORDS in all caps. Some of the stories came with tips.Humanize yourself to your captor. Hold your keys between your fingers and use them as a weapon.Jab them in his eyes. Hit him in the nose. Kick him in the nuts. Scream. Don’t scream. Surprise him. Don’t surprise him.

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