Impossible Odds

done, but there was no way to stop it. I was grateful they never got any working personal phone numbers from me, or they would be calling our loved ones and letting them listen to me scream.
    All I could think about was getting the man on the other end of the line to understand that we were living on the surface of a soap bubble here. The bubble couldn’t last.
    Bashir ordered Jabreel to give his phone back to him, and Jabreel promptly snatched it away from me. Just that quickly, the plea-for-ransom call was over. That was fine with me, odd as it may sound. Begging a stranger is a disgusting thing to have to do, and it was hardly more tolerable because it was forced on me.
    Still, in spite of the fact that I knew the NGO’s policy was not to pay ransom to criminal forces, I still believed they would do anything in their power to get us out. I reminded myself we were their employees, captured while doing their work. I knew the situation wasn’t easy for anybody on the other end of that call, but I prayed they would take any gamble necessary to get us out. My most heartfelt desire was to have the chance at freedom, even just the chance of it, knowing any form of escape or delivery could go entirely wrong right at the point of exchange but desiring the chance to make a go of it anyway. These drugged-up speed freaks were as likely as not to find something to set off their paranoia, and end up opening fire on all of us. As far as I was concerned, any chance at all to make a break for it was better than this endless stalemate.
    I wondered if Bashir was going to punish me now for my distasteful emotional display during the call. But this time, instead of registering any objection over my emotions, he just stared at me with a mixture of amusement and contempt. Apparently, I had performed just right for him, putting my fears and tears to workfor the kidnappers in their quest to raise the price on us. So be it, then, I thought. I’ll help them if it helps us.
    Even knowing I’d played right into their hands and delivered what they wanted, I was glad for the chance to speak to the director myself. If I was going to die out there because of their inaction, I wanted him to have to hear straight from me before the end came. And who could tell, perhaps it would increase his sense of us as individuals and get something going while there was time. If there was time.
    After the call, everybody else found an excuse to drift away and put distance between themselves and Bashir. That left just me. I was so filled with outrage and resentment that I found it easy to get my tears under control in his presence.
    That flipped some kind of switch. The Turd lunged for me, pointing his AK-47 and screaming at the top of his voice, “You f**king shut up! F**king arms! Up! Shut! Up!”
    In that instant I was too angry and disgusted to feel my natural fear of him. I deliberately glared right at him, boring a hole through him with my eyes, daring him to react. A typical Somali man is unaccustomed to seeing any women glare at him, unless she’s his mother or his wife. It made these men ill at ease to be presented with defiance from someone expected to grovel.
    I was too angry to care. After having watched him beat Poul for no reason and then take him away to whatever he had in store for him, I had reached the point where I needed to defy Bashir more than I needed to live. He looked surprised by my stiff reaction to his intimidation. For a second, he didn’t appear to know what to do. Then he shook his gun in my face and marched away.
    It was terrible to know after this I would be alone in that camp with those men. But at least Bashir’s leaving and letting quiet return was some improvement. I needed to think. There was no safety or satisfaction to be had anywhere around me; the only place I would find any was within my imagination. A few hoursof peace and quiet were what I needed most of all to put up my best memories and walk around inside them for a while. It felt as necessary as leaning my face out of a burning building in order to breathe clear air.
    Lately it was taking me longer to get the images to zoom in and focus. My imagination was active, perhaps too much so, but I was having a harder time controlling what I’d see. In the beginning I’d been able to call up my store of beautiful memories practically on demand. All I needed to do was center my breathing to relax out from under the fear; better images and feelings would follow. In