“Are you going to put all that in the biscuits?” I asked her.
“No, silly. Each biscuit gets a different one.”
“Very intelligent,” I complimented her. “That increases significantly the prospects of success for at least a portion of the experiment.”
“And they might *all* be good too.”
The child was still during the baking process, but stole occasional glances at the oven. When the timer sounded, she reached it before I did. She turned the oven off, opened the door, and took out the metal tray with the biscuits, being careful to wrap her hand in a towel first. I never use a pot holder for such tasks and the child had apparently observed my propensity for utilizing whatever was at hand.
“They *look* real good,” she said, holding out the tray.
I was constrained to agree. The appearance of the finished product did not vary visually from what I had grown accustomed to over the years.
“Which one do you want?” she asked.
“Do you remember which is which?”
“Yes,” she said proudly. “Just tell me which one you want, and I’ll pick it out.”
“Oh, the. . . parsley.”
“Here!” she said, reaching unerringly for the correct biscuit. She watched as I took a tentative bite. It tasted as it usually did but, perhaps, there was just a hint of parsley. . .?
“It’s quite good,” I told her.
“See?”
“Yes, I do. Now perhaps you would like to sample one yourself?”
“I’m going to try the onion,” she declared.
We then reversed roles, me watching her with some interest. “Ummm! It’s really, really good!” she sang out.
The radish biscuits—she had, for some reason, made two of those—were, we both agreed, the least successful of the batch. “Now you have your own recipe, Zoë,” I told her.
“My own?”
“Certainly. You are the originator, so it is certainly your own.”
“You mean it’s a secret?”
“Not necessarily. I only mean you hold the key. If you share your recipe with anyone else, they could certainly pass it along. But if you keep it to yourself, only you will know.”
“You know too.”
“I promise I shall never tell another living soul.”
“Swear?”
“Yes, child. I swear.”
“What should I call it?”
“Well, what about ‘Zoë’s Secret Recipe’?”
“No, I don’t like that. It’s not really a secret, it’s more like a. . . they *look* the same, right? As the regular ones?”
“Yes, they do.”
“So it would be a surprise? If you ate one and you didn’t know?”
“Absolutely.”
“Zoë’s Surprise,” the child said. “That’s what I’m going to call it.”
“Perfect,” I assured her.
True to her word, although the child insisted on playing checkers throughout the day, she never once complained about not winning. In between, she busied herself with drawing. Although she watched television programs when I did, she displayed no independent interest in the medium. Nor was she at all drawn to the video games, the first of my captives who resisted such temptation. She continued to be somewhat ceremonious about meals, but as it mollified her to be allowed to alter either content or presentation, I silently acquiesced to the point where it became the norm.
I observed her closely for signs of dissociation, especially as she displayed no anxiety whatever concerning the progress of reunification with her family. Some children segue into an altered state to cope with unbearable trauma and, despite my best efforts, children have reacted in such a manner occasionally. However, Zoë was fully oriented—albeit often preoccupied—at all times. And although her curiosity was, in general, boundless, it was all outwardly focused.
“I’m going to be gone when you get up tomorrow morning,” I told her. “I have to go out and check the newspapers, and pick up some of the things you wanted. But I have to leave quite early to do that, do you understand?”
“Yes. But can’t I—?”
“Zoë,” I said patiently, “it would be impossible to take you along. I already explained—”
“Not that. I just wanted to. . . Oh, never mind.”
“Wanted to. . . what, child?”
“Never *mind*!” she blurted out, stamping her foot. The first display of willfulness I had observed. I made a decision not to press her, and she soon returned to what I had come to understand was her normal affect.
In order to encourage her to go to sleep earlier than usual—I myself could not rest until she had achieved that state—I read her another story.
As soon as she was asleep, I disabled the computer, proofed the surroundings, and tested the restraints. Everything was in order.
I awoke at 4:00 a.m.—my wristwatch has a silent alarm which causes it to throb against my pulse. After showering and shaving, I selected an anonymous business suit and a well-used carry-on bag. But when I re-entered the main room to have a cup of tea before I left, Zoë was up and bustling about.
“Why are you up so early, child?” I asked her.
“Well, I had to make breakfast, didn’t I?”
“It’s too early for you to eat. Why don’t you go back to—?”
“Not me, you. You have to eat something before you go out. It’s important to always have something in your stomach.”
“Very well,” I told her, not wishing to cause her any distress when she would be alone for so long.
She made an omelet with several different ingredients. I didn’t watch her closely, preferring to be surprised. It was excellent, despite the pale color and altered texture.
“What did you put in this, Zoë?”
“Cream cheese and red peppers.”
“Well, you’ve done it again. This is quite astounding.”
“You won’t forget, will you?”
“Forget what?”
“What you’re going to get. When you’re out?”
“A deck of playing cards,” I told her. “And some fresh bread, if I can find it.”
“You *did* remember.”
“It wasn’t a very complex task,” I told her. “Why would you expect me to. . .”
“People forget stuff,” she said, dismissively.
“My memory is flawless,” I responded.