Keiichiro figured any proper kidnap victim would've remembered to keep count of the days. Notches in one of the slats under the bed, or scratches on the wall behind the door, where the doctor would hopefully not notice anything. Something simple like that. He didn't even need to do any super secret stuff – he knew his grandma wouldn't approve of him marking up even a kidnapper's decor, that's for sure – because Atsushi's old calendar was still hanging over his desk, and just because it was the wrong year didn't mean it was useless. He could've started on any old square and just marked them off, one by one. The date wouldn't've been right, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was how many days it had been, and when he was going home.
But he hadn't remembered to keep count until he'd lost count, and now it was too late. No way to catch up. He could ask the doctor what day it was, but the doctor lived on some other planet where time was all slow and messed up, and he'd probably just give Keiichiro a crazy answer that made no sense. Keiichiro had worked out from the start that the doctor couldn't really see or hear him; the doctor's head was too full of Atsushi.
Probably just as well Keiichiro hadn't crossed anything off Atsushi's calendar anyhow. The doctor was always urging him to play with Atsushi's toys – the kid had a mountain of loot, and it obviously wasn't any use to him, seeing as how he was dead and all – but Keiichiro had accidentally kind of on purpose taken out some of his frustration on one of Atsushi's old teddy bears (he had twenty seven of them, weird!) and the doctor had completely freaked. Keiichiro had been plenty scared up until that point – hard not to be after some strange guy grabs you after school, stuffs you in the trunk of his car and keeps you locked up like it's a TV show or something, only happening for really real. But until he saw the doctor sitting on the bedroom floor, wailing over his dead kid's dead teddy, he'd still sort of assumed there'd be a happy ending; the doctor would send the Shirai family a cool ransom note made of newspaper cuttings and then meet them at a secret rendezvous point where Keiichiro would be exchanged for a getaway helicopter and a suitcase full of unmarked notes. Keiichiro hadn't understood until then that the doctor didn't care about money; the doctor just wanted his dead kid back. Keiichiro hadn't known the gut-tearing fright of a grown man's tears. He'd wet himself like a baby, and the doctor had stopped crying and had led him to the bathroom to clean up. "Don't worry about a little puddle, Atsushi," he'd scolded gently. "You hop into the bath while I fetch my bag and perform surgery on poor Ted. A few stitches and he'll be as good as new, you'll see. Then we'll all share some cake. It'll be a regular party!"
Keiichiro was more careful with Atsushi's stuff after that, but the tears and the cake kept coming, day after day. Sometimes there was nothing except cake, and Keiichiro had to keep it all down no matter how barfy he felt, because he didn't want to upset the doctor. At home he could have snuck the dessert onto Chikage's plate; Chikage was a sweet tooth like Atsushi. Keiichiro wondered if Chikage was looking for him. Chikage was pretty dumb, but he could be stubborn. Keiichiro hoped stubborn would be good enough. He didn't want to live with the doctor forever; he didn't want to keep count of forever. He had to get home.
He just wished the doctor wouldn't cry so much.
"Atsushi!" The cheerful call made Keiichiro jump; the doctor moved about the house on silent feet. Keiichiro waited uneasily while the doctor unlocked the bedroom door. It was boring being stuck alone in Atsushi's room all of the time, but the doctor was unpredictable company; Keiichiro was learning how to be Atsushi, but it was hard, especially in the less familiar parts of the house, and the doctor got funny when he made mistakes. As the door opened, Keiichiro stared up at the doctor through overgrown bangs. Sometimes, if he fuzzed his eyes, the doctor looked a little like his dad; that thought was worse than just about anything. "Atsushi, come down to the kitchen," said the doctor. "Wait'll you see the cake I've brought home today. It's magnificent!"
He took the doctor's hand and followed him downstairs, wincing when the floorboards groaned beneath his feet; Atsushi would've remembered where the creaks were. The doctor patted him towards Atsushi's chair, and he sat at the table, watching the dust shift in the doctor's wake as afternoon sunlight glowed through the kitchen's faded floral curtains. It wasn't like his mother's kitchen, where there was always something delicious bubbling on the stovetop or rising in the oven. The doctor's kitchen was quiet. Keiichiro traced the edge of a round breadboard, its wooden surface scored with countless cuts, while the doctor fussed over the cake. An old, forgotten fruit knife lay near Keiichiro's hand, and he placed it absently across the board, the first stroke of a call for help. The doctor didn't notice. "Look at these strawberries, Atsushi," he said, "I know how you love them." His expression was pleading as he passed Keiichiro a slice of creamy sponge.
Keiichiro's belly somersaulted. He pushed his plate off the table and watched it smash to pieces on the kitchen floor. It was too loud, and a cold splash of cream hit his bare toes. The doctor cried out his grief and fell to his knees, and Keiichiro took up the old fruit knife and knelt also, driving the blade into the doctor's left thigh. Keiichiro didn't like to hurt the doctor, but it was past time he went home.