Tamara is in my dream. We're together again, normal again. I missed her sweet face. We're in a landscape of burning buildings, running through the streets. I'm pulling her along,then pushing, screaming at her to just move. She won't move. Bane's somewhere in the flames, stalking. I can feel it. I know it's a dream, because she is there. I know it could be reality, because he is there.

I wake up in a cold sweat, remembering his question. Who is Tamara? Maybe he already knew. Knew where she was, beyond his reach unless he flexed his fingers and found her through a murky connection. He probably knew everything about me, her. Where she was, what she didn't tell me. I'm struck with panic, leftover from the nightmare, the frightening possibility that Bane has knowledge of me and my loved ones beyond what I've given.

Duh. Of course he would research the enemy. Part of me wonders if everyone I left behind has been caught already, if he would gloat in my face.

If I make him angry, what is he going to do with the information?

I've only been here four days, but every interaction seems monumental. He is the only person I've seen or been able to talk to. He is as clever as he is cunning, secretive, patient. Before, when I heard he was asking for me, sending the dogs after me, I took it as a testament to the damage we were inflicting. Now I know it's a twisted compliment, or a test that I will fail. A failure that will affect everyone else. I don't want to think about what happens if I pass.

I'm pacing silently, the plush carpet absorbing any footstep. I don't know which door Bane is behind. He waits until I am asleep or in another room before retiring to his. I press an ear to each. It's early morning, the lull between late night and dawn, the barest twinge of light. There's one door with yellow illuminating the small strip underneath, shadows occasionally blotting them out. Peeking through the keyhole reveals only one line of sight. He's standing at the window. His shirt is off and his back is scarred worse than anything I've ever seen, almost every single inch knotted, twisted flesh. I hope they hurt. He turns slightly, and I can see he's reading something. I realize his face is bare, and press my whole face against the knob, as if that will garner a better look. I'm frantically hoping he'll turn around fully when there is a loud knock and I'm left scrambling down the hallway.

The knocking repeats, gains urgency.

When he emerges half a second later, dressed and masked, I'm sitting upright under my blanket. He answers the door and steps out, closing it behind him. I hear muffled conversation, then he returns, puts on his jacket, cocks a gun, and locks me in.

I wait. I pace. I eat a meal and do a hundred sit ups in the bathroom and look through his keyhole. At least I know which room is his now, on the left side with access to a balcony. He can take the mask off, and he does. His location is not secret, and apparently he trusts someone enough to deliver a message straight to his door.

It's three hours until he comes back. Unharmed. Almost...jovial.

He throws me a duffle bag. "Clothes."

He's watching me unzip it with some strange anticipation. I don't like the way the mood has changed, everything screams danger, but he says it's just clothes.

And it is. They're familiar. They're mine, not what I was wearing when they found me, but from before. They smell like my apartment. They smell like home. I'm struggling to stay neutral. He's just trying to rile you. No one knows where I used to live. I used a P.O. box for any mail and had it listed on my license. I paid rent in cash and had an unofficial monthly lease agreement with the owner. My heart clenches as I think of the little apartment above the Asian grocery store...I thought it had been blown to bits. I don't want to look at these in front of him, so I feel around some more.

My fingers hit what I was fearing: the thick binding of my journal.

"Fuck."

"Now that," he stands and goes to pour a drink from the dining room bar,"was a novel. Something to toast to. Incredible writing. The detail.. superb."

There's a cold pit in my stomach. I know exactly what's written on every page. Page 56, my abortion and all feelings afterwards. Page 89, Tamara's new address and contact info, somewhere in Indiana. Page 1-400, every feeling and thought I'd had for the past two years. I take a sip, a harsh vodka. He speaks before I can.

"This was one of my favorites," He takes the journal out of my hand and flips to a page,"'March 23. I want to be still.I have not felt still this whole week. I feel on edge. I feel something inky black roiling inside of me. Last night I heard footsteps for hours above me.' But you lived on the top floor didn't you? Must have scared you."

When I don't answer he continues," This is one of the questions."

I nod. My anger has been replaced by the deep seated fear of another unpredictable man capable of great violence.

"'April 15th. Sometimes I feel so violent and torn inside I don't even recognize myself. I want to tear my face into strips and then I'll feel something and maybe it will be a little freedom. Just do it and be done just do it and be done.' That's written for a full page. What a useful find. The insight into your mind is just..."

He trails off, seemingly lost for words on how much he relishes this. He's absently staring out the window.

"I knew you would be the one. I did not realize how similar we are," He turns to me again,"Finish your drink."

There is no humor there. Whatever amusement he had before concerning me is gone. I don't like this change, and I don't know how to navigate whatever this conversation is. I finish the drink.

"I want to show you something."

He comes over and takes my chin in his hand.

"But you're not ready yet. You will be soon."