Impossible Odds

on top of the coals for a minute on each side, using a stick to turn them. No matter how long I spent pounding the dough, there was always sand left in it. But you go with what you’ve got.
    Once they were a bit done on the outside and firm enough to gently handle, the inside still had to be cooked, but direct contact with the fire gave them too much heat. They would burn before they cooked through. The trick was to use a stick to make a hole in the sand, then place the bread in the hole, bury it under more hot sand, and then pile hot coals on top of the protective sand layer. About five minutes later, after using the ground for an oven, I used the stick to dig up a hot piece of something resembling bread. As for the final yield, you may wonder: Was the earth-oven roll tasty? Oh, yes—if you were one of those kids who ate paste in grade school, you’d love this stuff. What Dahir the “Helper” showed me how to do, to create what became my regular breakfast when we could have it, was to rip the bread into pieces and pour hot sweet tea over it. No, it wasn’t a breakfast pastry, but the combination of bread and sugar brought that to mind.
    To battle for survival among so many hostile males, I instinctively took to behavior I suppose I shared with female captives as far back in time as you’d care to go. I did everything I could to avoid provoking what might be called an “enthusiastic male response.” The precautions included letting my appearance completely go except for basic cleanliness, such as that was. I also apparently guessed right in advertising my status as a “mother.” As far as I could tell this was keeping the men at bay. Fortunately, Poul and I were kept so isolated that even though the men were in the camp area, there wasn’t much occasion for any of them to interact directly with us.
    This, as you can imagine, was more than fine with me. But Jabreel was another matter. Unlike everyone else except Abdi, Jabreel’s job made it necessary for him to interact with us a great deal, now that the negotiations were underway. Jabreel seemed to be feeling the heady rush of being the contact point for the ransom they all anticipated. And like men down through the ages who suddenly find themselves in a key position of power, he was feeling frisky.
    He fancied himself an artful molester. He made weak excuses to justify sitting next to me, maybe placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder, my arm, my thigh. He always acted with the thinnest possible cover, just “passing by” and passing too close, “guiding” me in one direction or another by physically handling me instead of just pointing. He might offer a sympathetic pat of “encouragement” or some piece of flattery about my light hair while he stroked his filthy hands over it.
    At first he reacted playfully to me when I removed his hand, but it never discouraged him for long. While the days and nights progressed, the excuses for the touching became ugly satires of affection and kindness.
    “Jesses, I come to America (stroke, stroke, pat, pat). Stay with you.”
    “No, Jabreel. No. I’m married.”
    “I am your good friend (stroke, rub, pat). You’re my good friend?”
    “I am your married friend, Jabreel.”
    “Erik?”
    “Yes, Erik. I love Erik.”
    “I come to live with you and Erik! We are happy! (pat, pat, pat). I will sleep on floor. By your bed.”
    “By my . . . God.”
    “What you say?”
    “I said I’m married, Jabreel. So are you.”
    “You are beautiful” (stroke, stroke, pat, pat, pat).
    He had not become a rapist, quite. He was more like those memories so many women have: that one especially awful backseat wrestling match with some seriously wasted horndog, pawing you like a St. Bernard and smelling of flop sweat.
    Poul saw it, but there was nothing he could do. By now, I’m sure he knew as well as I did that another ticking clock had just appeared. Now, within that larger time pressure of the money negotiations was a secondary timer. It was measuring out Jabreel’s dwindling sense of personal restraint.
    He seemed to need secrecy to make his advances toward me. That was good in that it sharply reduced his times of opportunity. The brain of every Western woman working in the region, including mine, was imprinted with images from news footage of the bodies of female abductees, recovered long after a vicious gang rape and a final, merciful gunshot.
    I made it a point to twist away from him as discreetly as possible.