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He picked it up. It was fully loaded, as always. He looked toward the door, the revolver in his hand, gauging the distance there.

What man had done this?

He fixed himself a salad and ate it, never taking his eyes off the child. Then he heated the soup. It smelled very good. He waved a spoonful beneath her nose. “Come on now, wouldn’t you like to have a taste? Campbell’s is good stuff and it’s hot, right off an old-fashioned woodstove. It takes a while to heat anything, but it does work. Come on now, sweetheart, wake up.”

Her mouth moved. He got a smaller spoon, dipped it into the soup, and lightly pressed it against her bottom lip. To his surprise and relief, her mouth opened. He dribbled in the soup. She swallowed, and he gave her more.

She ate nearly half a bowl. Only then did she open her eyes. She looked confused. Slowly, she turned her face toward him, and stared up at him. He smiled and said, “Hello, don’t be afraid. My name’s Ramsey. I found you. You’re safe now.”

She opened her mouth and there came the strange noise he’d heard, a soft mewling that sounded of bone-deep fright and helplessness.

“It’s all right. No one will hurt you. You’re safe now with me.”

Her mouth opened but no sound came out this time. Her arms came out from under the afghan and she flailed at him, the only sound her small mouth made was that awful mewling that made him want to pull this little scrap of humanity against him and protect her.

He quickly set down the spilled soup and grabbed her wrists. Her eyes fluttered closed, but not before he saw the flash of pain. He released her wrists. Both wrists were raw. She’d been tied up. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m really sorry. Don’t fight me, please. I won’t hurt you.”

She huddled into a small ball and turned her back to him, her arms over her head, and didn’t move.

He sat there wondering what he should do. She was terrified. Of him. He couldn’t blame her.

Why didn’t she scream at him? She’d just made those strange sounds. Was she mute?

He said very quietly, hoping she could hear him, “Your wrists and ankles are in bad shape. Can I bandage them for you? They’ll feel better.”

Had she heard him? She still didn’t move. He pulled an old undershirt from beneath the pile of clothes he’d brought and ripped it into strips. He felt every scrap of fear in her as he washed her wrists and ankles really well, smeared on some Neosporin, then wrapped the soft material around them, knotting them off. There, he’d done everything he could. He stood slowly, knowing now he shouldn’t make any abrupt moves, and stared down at her. She was still in a tight little ball, her hands, now freed of him, tucked inside the covers.

She’d eaten a good bit of the soup. She wouldn’t starve. She was warm. She was clean. He’d smoothed antibiotic cream on the worst of the scratches and cuts. He looked toward the front door, then the front windows. He pulled down the shades and closed the curtains. Now no one could see in. He slid the bolts home on the windows. To get in, someone would have to shatter them. He walked to the back door in the kitchen and flipped the dead bolt. The door didn’t have a chain. He pulled one of the kitchen chairs over and shoved it beneath the doorknob. Someone could shove the door open, but the chair feet would screech on the floor and certainly wake him up.

He looked at her one last time. “If you awaken, just call me. My name’s Ramsey. I’ll be here with you. You’re safe now. All right? If you have to use the bathroom, it’s just beyond the kitchen, behind you. It’s clean. I just washed up in there yesterday.”

The covers moved just a little bit. Good, she’d heard him. But she didn’t make a sound, not even that gut-wrenching mewling noise.

His bed was on the far side of the single room. He remained fully clothed. He put both the rifle and his Smith & Wesson on the small table by the bed, right next to the reading lamp. He carefully marked the page of the thriller he was reading and set it