He might have stabbed me. He might do worse.

I wish that my parents had not told me to keep safe, and say throw yourself out there; the bruises and the trauma happen no matter what.

Now I try to hold my position away from the man who says we need to talk. As I stand under a swaying tree in the small park where my potential murderer had waited in disguise, watching him search his pockets for another device, I wonder what made him come here. Why, instead of going about our simple lives, did we need to meet like this.

I mean, here I was awkwardly waiting for him to get his shit together after he messed up killing me and, I wasn't feeling bad anymore. I was just asking these questions. The fact that I was out at night, the paranoia of being alone, the weirdness between Ronnie and I had been pushed far away. It was a damn nice last night feeling. I know that Stockholm syndrome is a thing, and that I was emotionally broke, but I wanted to know all his reasons why.

At least I told myself that, as I tried not to think of how fast I would die if I left. Not as fast as the normal victim I assured myself. I had already noticed the scar under my kidnapper's left arm where a technology implant had been removed, meaning he wasn't a hacker who would make the circuits under my skin explode. With him there would be a proper bullet fired, if he wasn't determined to hogtie my limbs and toss me in the trunk. Or maybe I had watched too many old movies. Maybe he had a stun gun.

My kidnapper finally pulls from his pocket a set of car keys with a fob and presses a button which is responded to by a nostalgic beep-beep of a hover car that I have yet to see. The grassy patch is quite empty besides the two of us until another pressed button lets the sleek black cruiser materialize in the air. (A rich man's trick. Though the usual rich man would have had a simple app for that.) 

Like most vehicles, it has upward lifting doors. Instead of having a hood with the motor stored underneath and a wide dashboard this model has a darkened windshield starting from the nose of the car and streaking to the back like a skunk stripe. He pulls the latch on the passenger door and lifts it open to expose a black leather interior. The thought of that subtle leather smell and the look of the plush seats makes it tempting to get in and he looks at me expectantly. 

I have enough decency not to let my mouth hang open and I plaster over my awe with a slight frown and an unimpressed stare. This is followed by an awkward silence as I do nothing with his invitation to have me get into the car. A grumpy expression crosses his face that matches the creases in his clothes.

"You're different," he comments for the second time.

"I'm still alive," I say simply. "That's different."

It would be nice for him to stop addressing me so I wouldn't have to come up with more snippy lines. What did he honestly expect after attacking me? Which part of this said that he deserved my attention? 

His eyes show confusion.

"You give yourself no chances," my kidnapper observes.

I would rather prepare for death. It was simpler. I glance at the leather interior of the seats. Probably smells of his gross cologne.

"Would you please get in the car? I don't feel like killing any witnesses."

Like he would after being so undecided with me, but I imagine one of the real homeless people passing by. Nobody really cared about them so I guess it wouldn't be a conflicted choice. 

"Fine," I tell him. I move to get into his car. "You just hold onto those moral standards."

I slide across the expensive leather to the far end where the front passenger seat has been replaced by a metal box, leaving no question that he liked to go at it alone. I pull my feet up onto the seat and start fiddling with location tracking options on my wrist phone. If he wasn't going to confiscate my technology then I wasn't going to let it go. I would tell the world that this girl was taken against her will.

He shuts the door behind me and gets comfortable in the driver's seat, sliding the keys into a slot to start the ignition where others would have used a thumbprint. The car hums and the touchscreen dashboard panel glows blue. He slides and taps through the panel options to set the destination for self-driving.

When I feel the car rise I hear a rattle beside my seat and stop typing an sos message to Donnie long enough to glance down. A Tylenol bottle sits forgotten on the carpeted floor. There is a crinkled old issue of Tech Zero magazine turned to an article on the effect of the biodome on sleep patterns.

"Janie," he tries to confront me, with the name I never gave him.

I look up instinctively, but I'm peeved that he knows it.

"Knowing my name does not make you cool," I let him know.

I hit send on the message and continue to ignore him by bringing up my projected screen and shifting through the apps on my bracket phone, testing what would connect to the network. I realize that my message to Donnie didn't send. Gods, it was probably the car. It must have bugged the signal. Why had I been worried about his shooting me before in the open when he never touched my stuff? Damn. But hadn't he already hacked it with the fake messages? Isn't that why I hadn't bothered. Now I couldn't tell. Damn that knifepoint against my stomach had messed me up a bit.

I wonder if people on an online game chat would even believe if I asked for help and made a mental note to try this social experiment if I ever survived.

Settling for an offline game I open Hero Run. Can't believe I still have this game. As I jump my character through obstacles, lights from outside streak through the projected screen and make it hard to see in the darkened car.

"Sorry about luring you to an ally. I did a background check. Figured it was the easiest way to meet."

"I feel so lucky," I said trying to ignore him.

What more could be done, except to let sarcasm drip like poison?

"That phone won't get a signal. You should have called the police a bit earlier."

"I did."

I jump my character over a sea monster.

"You didn't," he said assuredly.

I don't believe that he does. He was a low-tech liar. I hear the box in front of me pop open. Cold vapor rises from a crack, letting me know that the mystery box is a fridge. My kidnapper is leaning back in his seat holding the stolen vial of drugs over his head to peer into it more closely. I did that too once and noticed the same things he must, the nano-machines that left illusions before dissolving in the bloodstream.

I don't like being able to relate.

"You sure went through a damn lot of trouble for this," I commented to distract him.

I did wonder what he actually wanted. What was the deal with the nameless white card?

"You don't seem worried." he said in his observations.

"What's the fucking point," I grumble with irritation.

He reaches over to fully open the cooler lid and drops the vial of drugs inside. With nothing left to do he leans against the car door and watches out the window. I wish he fell out, my mind comments, but my spite isn't in it.

So that I won't be tempted to stare at him, I turn my head away from him and my phone game to find my own window. As we glide by balconies and walkways I stare at collected junk, catch snippets of tv programs through unscreened windows, and memorize each unique structural feature of the city. People's lives always seem so much more interesting and inviting from the outside.

"I think I get why you haven't freaked out," my captor commented dully. "You're the type who thinks they don't deserve things."

"Am not," I grumble.

"I'm going to ask some obvious questions. Then you can leave," he says.

"Then ask."

If the dumb guy wasn't going to threaten me then I should be allowed to sleep in my own bed.

"Maybe later."

"Idiot," I mumble.

He yawns. I'm aware of a quiet song playing over the radio and that he must have turned it on. The time flashing on the dashboard reads 4:15 AM. Just looking at it makes my eyes hurt. Shit. My mouth stretches in a yawn. The last thing I wanted was to fall aslee-

I vaguely realize the car has stopped. I hear his door open as fresh cold air rushes in. I snap from my daze and expectantly pull at the open latch. My door remains locked.

I rise from my slouch and put my hands to the clear cool window. My kidnapper is hooking up a charging cable from the landing dock to the car.

"Hey!" I yell at him.

I knock on the glass. He raises his head looking tired.

"Tomorrow," he tells me. "I'll get you out for breakfast. My rooms don't have locks."

"Your rooms don't have locks?! Seriously?" I yell through the glass. "What if someone steals your car?"

"They won't," he drawls and starts walking towards what I assume is his ridiculously modern house with its bare concrete supports and wall of windows.

"You ever hear of hosting your guest! You know, not abandoning them!" I try to rant till the end.

"There's wine in the cooler!" he yells back while lifting a hand in a symbol of goodbye.

I lose sight of him as he slips through the front door.