The inside of Rose’s head was one constant orchestral concert. Even as she squinted against the sun to watch the gunned men pacing the perimeters of their large squatters camp, the lilting oboes and bassoons and clarinets of “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” were bouncing around the inside of her skull like some ironic soundtrack. She didn’t know why particularly that song had been triggered. Perhaps it was a grim, grim connection; John the Baptist lost his head, after all. However, just as quickly as Rose thought of the connection, the melody changed to the dark, broad runs of Toccat in D Minor, and then the bouncing horn solo of Horn Concert Number Four in E Flat. She seemed to be cruising through several significant arrangements in the history of classical music rather quickly, instead of paying attention to the barking commands of the few heavily-accented English speakers as she no doubt should have been.

“What did he just say?” she whispered to Adriana, much louder than she had meant to. Adriana gave her a horrified grimace and shushed her, then turned her narrowed eyes back to the men in an attempt to look tough and strong in front of Leo. She was the oldest; he was a male. They were in a battle over who was supposed to be braver.

Suddenly people were moving and Rose cried with alarm, “All I heard was Symphony in C Minor!” She realized what a crack-pot that made her sound like, and to recover casually leaned back, putting her weight on her arms and stretching her legs out to appear nonchalant. She would follow that Bloom fellow and Isaiah-guy’s leads. They seemed to know what they were on about.

“That Bloom fellow,” however, had listened with a record-breaking intensity to every word that leapt haphazardly from the speaker’s mouth. He felt silly watching the men and so his eyes bore holes into the ground, but still he took their vague information and specific instructions to heart.

“You are all now under the careful guard of Lashkar-e-Taiba,” the bossman explained, his shoulders squared and his fists clenched behind his back. He presented his chest boldly to the mob as though daring any of them to try an attack. No one present knew what Lashka-e-Taiba was, so the information raised more questions than it answered.

“Our demands have been issued to the United States and United Kingdom governments and will hopefully soon be met.” He waited, as though to weigh the reaction. No one moved, though. No one had anything to say – or, rather, nothing they felt they could safely say.

Beginning to pace now, he continued, “In the meantime, we will do our best to make your stay here a relaxing retreat from your usual schedules. During daylight hours, you are free to roam within this fenced area, up to the river on the far side. No one is allowed in the water or next to the fences; should you fail to respond to commands to move away, you will be shot without remorse. While we hope your stay here is pleasant and uneventful, we require your cooperation within these matters.”

“He’s making it sound like a business retreat,” Isaiah muttered just loudly enough for Rose and Orlando to hear. Rose threw her head back and gave a silent laugh. Orlando decided she was bloody mad.

“We have kindly taken the difficulty to carry your luggage here. You will now return to your houses–“

”–houses! This guy should sell condos!”

“Hush,” Adriana insisted, grabbing Rose’s arm. It was such an oddly familiar act, such a firm but sweet grip on her arm, that Rose was baffled into silence. She had used the command of a younger sister to her elder, and Rose immaturely had no retort.

“–where you will be called in order and brought to retrieve your bags. Before you may return, your bags must be thoroughly searched by our staff. If you attempt to hide anything or steal another’s bags, a hand or foot will be removed for punishment.”

It sounded like a joke. His wording was awkward and added to the unrealistic nature of the threat to a group of people used to First World Country justice systems. But once again, the pistol at his hip and the machine guns flanking his every step added an cold steel reality.

When the command was given, though, Orlando helped Alfred up and Adriana helped Rose up and their little group stuck together, Dotty and Alfred bringing up the rear. There was a surprisingly short wait to get their things, however, the process itself of which was complicated and tedious.

All the luggage from the plane had been tossed into a huge pile in the clearing they had occupied the night before, and so dozens of prisoners at a time clambered around, some not bothering to be careful about stepping on others’ bags. There was no small amount of snarky comments and glares, and even a few shoves as people barked at each to, “Hey, watch it!”

Orlando had only two bags to dig out, though one he hardly cared about by this point: a garment bag with several thousands of dollars worth of suits in it. He didn’t have anything valuable or dangerous, though, and the scowling guard that dumped his suitcase out on the dusty ground and began digging through seemed disappointed not to have anything to confiscate. Orlando wasn’t sure what they were looking for anyways, though. They took laptops but didn’t seem to care about cell phones; many even tried to hand them over, anxious to lose their hand over such a stupid device, but the guards waved them away. There was absolutely no signal for any network, though, so it probably didn’t matter. They took tools, pocketknives, knitting needles, scissors, bottle openers, even shaving razors. All pills were gathered, but put into a giant crate and, it was explained, these would be kept in “the infirmary,” whichever hut that was.

Rose, who had in her two checked bags quite the pharmacy, snorted as the guards confiscated her pills, “God, this is familiar.”

“Rehab?” Isaiah presumed, his eyebrows twitching at his off-handed quip.

“Worse. A deeply troubled youth and Catholic school,” she laughed, earning a confused, almost affronted look from the guard digging through her clothing. Clearly, he couldn’t fathom why she would be laughing.

“They’re shoes,” Adriana clarified when a guard held up her stilettos suspiciously. Of course, to the untrained eye, they did look rather like weapons.

“So why are you taking all our pills?” Rose asked the guard, asked him casually as though they were old acquaintances and not a prisoner and her captor.

“It’s a cross!” came another cry from Adriana, frowning as the guard pulled a decorative silver cross from her bag. Apparently, the fleur-de-lis on the ends of the beams made him wary.

Rose shook her head, “Better take it. If pills aren’t safe, physical reminders of our opposing religious bullshit beliefs is a lot more dangerous.” The guard didn’t understand her but tossed the cross over his shoulder; Adriana winced as it hit the ground and bounced, one of the arms bending at the impact.

She was clearly upset, though, and could only half offer a smile when Theresa patted her on the arm and assured her, “That silver cross isn’t the one that counts.”

Finally they were deemed fit for release and their group struggled to lug all their bags down the paths to their hut, which had since been marked with a large character that meant nothing to them.

“It looks like Cyclops sticking his tongue out at us, don’t you think?” Leo mused, reaching up to touch the painted design. He cringed at the wetness, showing disgust when he pulled his fingers away and inspected the blood red liquid.

“You don’t think it’s–“

Rose grabbed his hand, gave it a sniff, then shook her head, “It’s not blood. Good old fashioned paint. Glad Girl Scouts taught me something.”

“How to sniff paint?”

“Ah, we’ve got a wise guy in our midst,” Rose snorted, giving Isaiah a lifted eyebrow. He didn’t look at her, but from the smirk as he pushed through the curtain, he seemed flattered; her own dryness seemed to be making him bolder.

The sun glowed warmly through the slits of the stalks and the thatch roof, but it was still a bit dark until Dotty pulled the curtain back to let more air in.

“Well, if we’re going to be here for some time, we might as well try to make do with what we have, wouldn’t you say?” she suggested, turning and looking with determination at the small room. Spaces were claimed so that everyone could unpacked, settle in, try to create nests for themselves in this unlikely home away from home. Isaiah and Orlando took their posts on either side of the door, then Theresa with her sons beside Orlando, followed by Rose, Adriana, Leo, and finally Dotty and Alfred beside Isaiah.

“Do you think they’ll give us blankets or anything?” Leo asked, unhappy that they had taken his Gameboy. Adriana got to keep her iPod! Life was so unfair.

“Aw, fuck, my chocolate’s melted!” Rose suddenly gasped, throwing her hands up as though this were the last straw, she was finished with this whole captive thing, she was throwing in the towel.

Orlando, mostly keeping silent simply for a lack of anything to say, spoke up at this, demanding almost angrily, “Really? All this is going on and you’re crying about melted chocolate? And watch your language in front of the kids.”

During the shocked silence that followed at this terse retort, Rose gave him a horrified expression, though he wasn’t sure if it was in response to what he had said or simply that he had scolded her at all.

“First of all, if chocolate is unimportant, so is my language. Second of all, I’ll speak however the fuck I want about whatever the fuck I want.”

“Look, lady, nobody wants to be here. The least you could do is try to make it a little more pleasant for the rest of us.”

“Yeah, that’s what my chocolate would have done,” she snorted. “But forget this, I’m going for a walk.” And without further explanation, she was gone, stormed out the open doorway and disappeared down some path.

An uncomfortable silence pervaded the hut for a long moment before Dotty admitted, “I’m glad you said something about her language, dear. She’s such a pretty girl; it’s a shame to hear her swear like that.”

“Where do you think she’s going?” Adriana breathed, running to the door and looking out. Rose was nowhere to be seen.

Orlando didn’t answer, if the question had been directed at him. He retreated back into himself as conversation picked back up, angry and embarrassed at his own outburst. Rose really wasn’t doing anything wrong. Sure, complaining about chocolate was stupid and petty, but how were they ever going to survive if they only focused on the big problems? Melted chocolate was much easier to fix – though maybe not in this desert.

His seventh level teacher had written on a report home to his mother, “Orlando is a sweet boy but moody and aloof.” At the time, his mother had been furious, insisting that one couldn’t be both moody and aloof anyways.

However, Theresa seemed sympathetic to Orlando’s embarrassment and mused with a grim smile, “I wonder what all those pills of hers were for . . .”

“Birth control,” Rose suddenly answered for herself, reappearing in the doorway without any warning. Yanking her guitar up from the far wall, she stomped off again as quickly as she had come.

This time, though, Orlando’s shoulder shook twice in just the smallest, most self-indulgent of laughs. Any teacher that had called him moody had never met this self-indulgent little twit! But her immaturity was somewhat refreshing; she didn’t seem the least bothered or ashamed of her own selfishness and carelessness, and so put up no front to hide it. Clearly, what one saw was what they got, and that rarely seemed to be the case with people.

With Rose’s reappearance, though, Adriana acted quickly, calling out, “Wait, I’ll come with you!”

“Me too!” Leo added, streaking after his older sister.

Quickly, Caden made to follow, adding his own piping, “Me too!”

But just as quickly, Theresa grabbed his arm, laughing, “I don’t think so, Caden.”

It was cute; it made everyone smile and squint at the harsh light outside, as though expecting the three big kids to pop back in again. Orlando smiled but secretly frowned and felt suddenly very, very sorry for himself. He was always one of the big kids, too. He was usually the one leading everyone off on fun little adventures, into messes, letting someone else step up and rush him to the hospital when he inevitably got hurt. Why did he feel like he had to be the adult here? Granted, he had never been under this sort of pressure before . . . but no one would have guessed him to be the one to step up and be responsible in such a situation. He didn’t like the pressure.

“You’re just tired is all,” Theresa answered suddenly. It scared Orlando and made him jump, not expecting her voice to invade his thoughts.

“What?”

“Why you snapped at her,” Theresa explained. “You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?”

Orlando shook his head, then closed his eyes and let it fall back against the wall, “No, but I don’t think I’ve slept in years.”

“Well, now’s your chance,” she laughed, lifting Ian into the air and nipping playfully at his toes to make him giggle.

“Not exactly the opportunity I was looking for.”

“Yes, well they never are, are they?”

“You aren’t so overwhelmed with fear that you can’t think straight?” It was such a sudden question, such a raw confession -- not necessarily of how Orlando actually felt, but how he was fearful of feeling. Afraid of being afraid. He wasn’t even sure where the question had come from because he hadn’t even been thinking about fear just then Fear seemed to him one of those abstract notions pointless to contemplate. Like a lactose intolerant person trying to decide if they preferred chocolate or vanilla ice ream; like a murderer deciding if he felt like going to jail once the sentence was passed down; like deciding to boycott blinking. You either felt it or you didn’t.

Theresa took it in good turn, though, and seemed unphased. She paused for a moment to watch Caden, whose back was to them as Alfred showed him something of utmost interest that was hidden to their eyes. They could hear him gasping and Alfred seemed thrilled by the audience.

“It’s not a question of fear, I don’t think. I’m a mother, Orlando, and the safety of my children is completely out of my hands right now. It’s just . . . it’s a matter of putting your hope in something. For me, that’s God. For my sons, it’s me. For Leo it’s being Adriana’s brother; for Adriana, it’s being Leo’s sister. Maybe for Rose it’s being flighty and immature and offensive,” she laughed. “Dotty and Alfred have their world in each other. Isaiah makes himself useful.”

Orlando listened to her every word and admired how thought out her response was, how perceptive, and how it was composed rather beautifully from a woman that otherwise came across quite simple and homely. She was pretty, though not overly beautiful, her blond hair in a bob to her chin. She looked like, had she led another life, she could have passed as a young professional or even an adamant bachelorette partyer; she certainly had the thin frame and wide eyes for it, and couldn’t be but right around Orlando’s age. Her chin was a little too narrow for the roundness of her face, and her collarbones protruded a bit too much to be attractive, though she certainly had the soft spots of a housewife on her stomach and hips. Clearly, she had more important things in her life than make up and fashion. And she looked tired, maybe moreso than Orlando.

“What if you don’t have anything?”

“You mean religion? Do you have parents? Pets? A job? A spouse? Friends? Unfinished business?”

“Most of the above.”

“Then you have something to hope in or for and that’s all you can really do. Take it a day at a time.”

“That’s what my doctors told me,” he snorted, shaking his head, recalling the frustrated anger he had felt at the admonition. “I broke my back when I was younger and that’s basically what the doctors told me. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and take it one day at a time.”

“I know. It’s terrible to hear, but it’s the only thing I’ve found that works. If you take on too much, it just . . . you drown.”

“You speak like someone who knows,” he sighed. Probably most people in the world knew hard times, but most people also forgot that other people knew hard times, too, and then were shocked to learn someone else had it worse.

She hesitated to answer, then gave him a sad smile and nodded, “My husband was killed in Baghdad . . . about a year ago now. US Marine.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he frowned, cringing at how shallow and insufficient the words sounded. He meant them sincerely; he couldn’t imagine losing a spouse. Without thinking about it, his eyes trailed to Ian snuggled against her chest.

Theresa noticed, of course, and gave him another half-hearted smile, not wanting to bring the mood down anymore than it already was, and answered the unasked question, “Three months before Ian was born. But we’re okay.” She ran her finger along Ian’s nose, tapping his dimpled chin playfully and smiling with utmost affection for her baby. Orlando watched her with her son. Maybe he had underestimated her age; she suddenly seemed much older. But perhaps that was just the face of sorrow. He never would have guessed her a widow. If only for her sons’ sake, she seemed to have taken her own advice to heart.

“And we’ll stay that way,” he assured her, not sure whether or not he believed his own words. He was going to, though. He would convince himself. He certainly had the time to prepare an encouraging argument for hope.

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