she sits in the waiting room like the rubbery head of a match. links right leg over left to cinch and curl her foot around the opposing calf. a proffer of protection in the familiar contorted posture. she pictures herself in a light weight cardboard box with a cello window. a large banner across the top of the pane. shouting. one posable human. she smiles into the open neglected book on her lap. something about native americans and protest. a re-read she's supposed to be enjoying like walking home with her eyes closed. instead, she pictures her broken insides. attempts a rendering of the blood and guts and sin. then writes the words:

are you being held hostage?

in big bold letters across the blank page of her spiral and holds it up to the elderly woman sitting in the chair facing her. imagines her lack of response as secret code. for something. she wonders if either one of them will escape.