The silence in the room caused William Randolph Sloan’s ears to swell with the echo of his own rapid pulse. The noise sounded like thousands of soldiers marching on sandy beaches to reach the front of the battle. His eyes closed and the darkness quickly gave way to brilliantly colored dancing shapes, purples and deep blues and bright with white flashes of electricity that repeated an unending pattern. Without breaking their firm seal, the eyelids of William Randolph Sloan whisked the hot flow of tears quickly from the surface of his bloodshot eyeballs. The salty tears quickly navigated their way through the corner of his tightly squeezed eyes and down whiskers of his new beard.

Suddenly his legs had no strength. The legs that supported him as a young boy sorting paper in his company’s mailroom; the legs that walked into a smoky board room as a young man and proposed the idea that sensationalism resulted in profit; the legs that had served as the base of his strong, robust torso. Now they were nonexistent. Yes, they were there, but their purpose was no longer useful and quickly the core of William Randolph Sloan’s body gave way to the force of gravity.

“Now you listen to me, Mr. Sloan. I have been on my feet the moment that phone call came in. I have run myself ragged trying to fulfill your requests. I’m sorry that they don’t have any more slippers at the department store. I’m sorry that your cigar tastes like tree bark. I’m sorry that the air in this room is slowly choking you. I’ve fetched your slippers, I’ve replaced your cigars, I’ve opened windows and I’m so very close to throwing you out of one of them right now.”

William Randolph Sloan stuttered, “Hold on there Marg-”

“And more than anything, Mr. Sloan. I am so very sorry that your little girl has been kidnapped. I cannot tell you how much it breaks my heart to see you pace, to see you ask questions that no one can give you the answers to, to not eat for two weeks straight. It breaks my heart, Mr. Sloan. But you need to listen to me. Sitting in this office, walking back and forth, pounding on your desk, ordering people about without the slightest amount of respect or gratitude- you cannot continue this type of behavior. You need to sleep. You need to eat. You need to take care of yourself.”

William Randolph Sloan’s face fell to a blank. Margie could make out the slightest amount of movement in his nostrils; she knew what was coming.

“You need to take care of yourself, Mr. Sloan. Not only for your sake or the sake of the people around you, but for the sake of your little girl. For the sake of Molly.”

Margie hated to pull the one last thread that was keeping the faux brave front of Mr. Sloan basted to his exterior, but she knew William Randolph Sloan better than her own mother. Tugging that thread would be the only way to help him shed his suit of fear and worry, leaving him metaphorically naked. And a metaphorically naked William Randolph Sloan is, indeed, a sight to behold.

In Margie’s opinion, at least.

She now held onto this final pair of slippers- the only ones that would be available until December- tightly in her tired arms.

“Margie. What are you waiting for? Bring me another pair. I feel like the ball of my foot is being shredded away.”

She placed the slippers gingerly on the desk.

“Mr. Sloan. That’s the last pair until December.” Her glasses were beginning to glide down the fine sheet of sweat that had suddenly developed on her nose. She quickly pushed them back into place.

“Nonsense. They know these are the only pair I wear. It’s a department store. It’s their job to make wares available to their customers. When I need slippers, they better have slippers.”

She silently shifted her stance and popped a new knot in the root of her back. “The lady at the store said they won’t have any more available until the end of December.”

Suddenly, Mr. Sloan’s desk was clear of his ink blotter, his pen holder, his cigar lighter, his mountain of piled articles, receipts, forms and scratch paper with scribbled notes. All lay beside his walnut desk. A small wisp of dust lingered.

“Well find another place that has them, Margie. This is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable! I need those slippers. How can I be expected to save my little girl if I can’t even comfortably exist?! I am a very powerful man and I have needs and one of those needs is a pair of slippers! I need them Margie! I need them! Get them for me right now!” His fist bounded on the waxed surface of his desk with each point of emphasis. His bloodshot eyes eerily disappeared and reappeared behind the rapid blinking of his darkened lids.

The sole of Margie’s feet began to burn. The sensation quickly flooded the sockets of her hips. She felt the small amount of flesh on the mound of her thumb get pinched by the sharp edges of her well-manicured nails. Her glasses slipped.

A quivering hand replaced her spectacles. But instead of returning to its usual position passively tucked into the small of her back, her hand formed a small fist and slammed against the top of Mr. Sloan’s walnut desk.

The resulting echo caused such a surge in the environment that the linen window treatments rustled. Margie’s glasses slipped from the sudden force of movement. She yanked the chain they dangled from around her neck and flung them to the ground, the two small seashell accents skipped across the floor.

Margie knew something was wrong the minute she walked into her office two weeks ago. There was a strange brightness that morning. Everything gleamed: the sun danced off of passing taxi windows, the puddles from a nighttime shower sparkled in a painful manner, even the white coat of her precious feline Snowball caused her to wince as she laid out his morning breakfast (complete with his preferred twig of parsley and fresh shrimp curled around the crest of the molded tuna. Cats can be so finicky.)

The phone was especially shiny that afternoon. The cleaning crew had done a floor to ceiling waxing after the bi-annual office sweep for bugging devices. Per usual, nothing was found and there was some relief from William Radolph Sloan’s paranoia. Margie had been enjoying the break from the constant soothing, the constant reassurance that Willaim Randolph Sloan needed to become copasetic enough to run the day to day business of the daily. She was getting tired of the peculiar looks she received when she picked up a pair of slippers from the near-by department store.

“This is the last pair we have,” the polite girl behind the counter informed her. “We won’t have another shipment in until December.”

Margie was sure that there would not be a need for another pair of slippers for Mr. Sloan. No, she was almost sure that she’d have a break now that he was over his ‘Bugs In The Office’ phase.

How wrong she was.

“Dammit, Margie. Where could she be?”

William Randolf Sloan stared at the exposed wood that had recently become a familiar stain to his usually dark-oiled floor. Through his now-worn slippers, he rubbed his third toe against the grain that had served as his pacing path since receiving that mysterious phone call two weeks ago.

“Get me another pair, Margie.” He kicked off the offending footwear and sat heavily in his leather office chair. “Two and a half weeks. Nothing. Not a word. Where could she be?”

Margie gathered up the slippers, her glasses slipping off her slender nose. “Mr. Sloan. This is the second pair you’ve thrown out. I really think that maybe you should see a doctor.”

“What is a doctor going to do, Margie? A doctor isn’t going to bring my little girl back! What a ridiculous suggestion,” barked William Randolf Sloan.

Margie pushed her glasses back to their homey niche. She adjusted the chain to properly balance the two seashells that dangled from the gold rims. Quietly she cleared her throat and subtly popped a knot in her frail spine. She had not had a chance to lay down for more than an hour in the last two weeks.

“I think that maybe you should see a doctor. Maybe he could prescribe you something for your nerves.”

William Randolf Sloan slammed his fist against his desk. “My nerves are just fine.”

Margie clutched at the slippers, her lips pressed in a small line. Again, she subtly popped a small knot that suddenly appeared in her neck.

“That was a damn wedding gift from your damn brother,” shrieked Mildred.

I looked around at the shards of glittering crystal and recognized the pieces as being from Mildred’s flask. A fresh mark was inches above my head– sap began to leak from the tree’s wound.

“You drink too much!” Brutus grunted back. “You drink too much and you have the mouth of a sailor.”

“You have the face of a damn…sailor… that’s sea sick! Damn it.” Mildred cleverly retorted.

“You have the brains of a gin-soaked rag!” Brutus snapped back.

“Say it… don’t spray it!” Their faces were an inch apart. The sweat from Brutus’ face dripped onto Mildred’s collarbone. Mildred’s busted lip dribbled onto Brutus’s elbow. In the evening’s light, you could almost make out the vapors that slipped from their parted lips.

Suddenly my stomach had more knots than a crocheted coverall for a cruise ship. Mildred and Brutus were…. were…. kissing.

Clipping letters out of newspapers requires patience, a steady hand and nimbleness with scissors. Brutus Dennison was now discovering that a dry touch was also a necessity.

“Stupid ‘k’s,” he spit on himself, trying to shake a crumpled ‘W’ that clung to his sweaty palm and collected dirt and small sticks from his make-shift workspace. “Why are ‘k’s so difficult to find?”

Mildred laughed to herself. Brutus wiped his brow and left smears of newspaper ink and glue across his visage, causing Mildred to laugh so hard that a coughing fit overtook her slouched body. As each appendage regained control, Mildred caught her breath and straightened herself, reaching into her pocket.

“Use a ‘c’ instead, you idiot. This isn’t a spelling bee, it’s a ransom note.” She lifted a crystal flask to her lips but found that it was dry. Before she could return it to its comfy pocket home, her lips were wet- but it wasn’t the gin that ran down her chin. Her jaw began to pound with pain. She raised her head to find Brutus standing above her, panting, beads of sweat carving out paths through his ink-covered face.

“You damn bastard,” she answered, cupping her bottom jaw. “You damn bastard, you busted my damn mouth.”

Brutus Dennison blinked hard and quick. “Mildred- so help me- if you utter another word I’ll do it again.”

Mildred pulled herself up from her seat on a stump and shuffled her feet against the powerful force of gravity. Looking at her blood-soaked hand, she noticed that the ‘W’ that had clung so desperately to Brutus was now plastered across her palm. She swayed and steadied herself using a finger that pressed into Brutus’s lapel. Her other hand slowly crumpled into a bloodied fist.

Standing face to face, the two created a silhouette against the setting sun. From my point of view, one could have easily mistaken them as taking the first steps of a waltz. But before the next step of the waltz could be made, shards of crystal fell around me.

Yes. It is hard to imagine, I’m sure. But as a Pulitzer-prize winning reporter, you learn that sometimes the imagination is nothing compared to reality. You learn to turn off the logical side of your brain and tune into the part that wants to survive the situation so that your story will be told. You learn to assess each situation with lightening-quick speed and start forming a plan.

Are the knots a familiar tie to you?
How much give does the fiber in the rope have?
Are there times when your captor will leave you alone?
What sort of jewelry do you have on that may be used as a cutting device?
Which way do you run once you’ve escaped your bonds?
How high are the heels/ tight is the skirt you are wearing and will this fashion choice cause a hindrance to your plans?

This sort of instinct cannot be taught. You either got it or you don’t.

And kiddos, I got it. I’ve had it since that first time I was ever tied to a tree in a shadowy glen in the bend of Central Park.

Hostage situations are the worst as you are completely at the mercy of your captor. The only hope to hold onto is knowing that you serve as a bartering tool. You are the one thing that a desperate soul has to negotiate with; your life is what keeps his life going. However, this does not mean you will receive any sort of care or comfort. Your comfort is not a priority- the escape, the freedom, the demands- these are all that matter. Rope may be replaced with rusty wire. Knots will be tighter than usual. Blindfolds will squeeze so snuggly around the cranium that you’ll feel your pulse in your eyelids.

I won’t even go into what rights you are denied; in a hostage situation you are reduced from being a human being to being just a tool. And tools don’t have basic needs in a desperate man’s mind- tools do not urinate, do not get dehydrated, do not have hunger.