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“I’m fine,” I mutter, pressing my lips together.

He stands. “Breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Not optional.”

My anxiety spikes. “What does that mean?”

“It means you need to eat something.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“And I said you need to eat,” he says firmly. He turns toward the door. “I’ll be back.”

I tug once on the cuff. “Wait.” The word escapes before I can swallow my regret.

He pauses, hand on the doorknob. “What?”

I hate how pathetic this sounds. “Are you… Are you going to lock it again?”

“Yes, but I’m coming right back,” he says.

“Whatever,” I murmur, turning away from him.

When I hear the door close and the lock click, I sit up, then wiggle around some to dislodge the comforter below me and burrow under it.

When the door opens again, he’s carrying a tray full of yummy-smelling food. Betraying me, my belly lets out a loud growl, to which my captor chuckles.

“Still not hungry?”

“Shut up.” My voice is thin as a thread.

The man brings the tray over and sets it on my lap. And wow, it has more food than I normally eat over an entire week of breakfast.

There’s a generous mound of scrambled eggs, two slices of buttered toast, a bowl of strawberries, another bowl of banana slices, and a cup of yogurt. Two Tylenol tablets sit next to a glass of apple juice, with another of the man’s bendy straws in it. This one is green. The one in my water was pink.

“I can’t eat all that,” I mumble, looking away.

“You don’t have to finish everything,” he says, surprising me, before sitting on the mattress and picking up the fork from the tray. “I just want you to eat enough that the medication doesn’t hit an empty stomach.”

He spears a piece of egg and holds it toward me, his gaze patient.

I shuffle back against the stiff headboard. “No.”

He pauses, fork midair. “What?”

“I can feed myself.”

“I know.” His tone is a quiet admission.

“Then give me the fork.” My voice has an edge now.

“No.”

I stare, incredulous. “Why?”

“Because you tried to hit me with a lamp twelve minutes ago.”