In the years that follow, I will lose the Hawaiian ring I do not yet possess. I'll replace it, then lose that one. Then a third ring as well. A combination of skinny fingers, bulging knuckles, and a marriage that, despite all efforts, will never quite fit.
        For her part, Mary will never lose any of her rings, including the expensive, three-banded multi-diamond ring from Reed and Elliot I will give her on our twenty-fifth anniversary.
        I don't know any of this as I stare down at my billfold and wristwatch lying beside the shoes and sandals lined up neatly on the floor of Mark's bedroom closet. The only thing I truly know is a question:
        What now?
        I steal back into the living room and think it over. From Mark's lanai there are only two ways out. Up the same exterior steps on the side of the house that brought us all down to Mark's apartment from Mrs. Krause's driveway. If I go that way the gunmen upstairs might see me. The space between Mark's apartment and the house on the opposite side of his lanai is blocked by something; I can't remember what. The only other escape route is over the railing of the lanai and down the mountainside. That way is steep and overgrown with shrubbery, but I can probably climb my way down to the backyard of the neighbors' house that sits immediately below us, on the same street that loops its way down the mountain. From there I can phone the police.
        But what happens if the gunmen return and discover I'm gone?
        What happens if I do nothing?
        I look down at the three blanketed figures on the floor. They lie like homicide victims discovered at the scene, their stillness a prayer for resurrection. I start to kneel beside Phil and whisper to him that I am free, ask him what to do. But I do not. Somehow I know that, at this moment, like the poet traveling through the dark, I must think for all of us.
        Finally, I turn back to the bedroom. From the closet I retrieve my watch and billfold, and slip them back where they belong. Back in the living room, I pluck my belt off the floor and, as best I can, retie my own wrists. The knot is loose, but at least it's a knot. When I'm finished, I worm my way back under the blanket beside Mary. Her muffled breath catches, but she says nothing, accepting my act of faith in jagged silence.
        I'm sorry, I want to tell her. I don't know what else to do.
        Only a moment or two later, my ear pressed against the floor, I feel more than hear the tap-tap of footsteps descending the exterior steps. The screen door creaks open, and the steps angle across the room to the spot where Mary and I lie.
        Suddenly my hands are yanked up behind my back. The belt is cinched tight, restricting the circulation in my wrists. I can feel the gunman's suspicious anger in the rough, jerky way he tightens the coils of the belt. When he is finished with me, he reties Mary's bindings as well.

                                13