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“You’re weird,” I mumble.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “So I’ve been told.”

I decide never to think about it again.

He then rises from the edge of the mattress and walks over to the dresser. For a second, I tense, expecting him to leave, but instead he crouches and reaches underneath it.

The water bottle.

Right.

It rolled away when I tried to brain him with the lamp.

He retrieves it, brushes a little dust from its side, then walks back toward me. My eyes track every movement.

“You need water.” He crouches down at my bedside.

“I can drink by myself. I don’t need help.”

He glances pointedly at my right wrist, which is currently attached to the headboard.

I lift my left hand. “This one works.”

“Eh. It’s swollen.”

“Well, yeah, but it works fine.”

He breaks the seal on the water bottle in front of me. Then, to my confusion, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic straw.

“Why do you have a straw in your pocket?” I ask.

“I brought it.”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So you can drink without spilling water all over yourself.”

“You kidnapped me,” I remind him.

“I did,” he agrees. “Are kidnappers not allowed to have straws?”

“I… I don’t know…”

He drops the straw into the bottle, bends the little bendy part toward me, then sits on the edge of the mattress.

He tilts the bottle; the liquid inside sloshes, tiny bubbles clinging to the plastic.

My mouth feels like I’ve swallowed cotton. I hate how badly I want that cold relief.

“You can drink,” he says softly.

I glare, dipping my head. “I know.”

“Then drink.”