Page 17 of Stone’s Cage

"We'll talk about that later."

This surprises me. It's like he knows I haven’t been truthful. What else does he know?

"I'm going to go clean up in the kitchen," he says. "But here's some bottles of shampoo and conditioner for you," and he hands me two bottles from under the sink. I notice the cupboard doesn’t have a handle, just two screw holes where there once was one. "And a toothbrush."

He gets the water running for me. "You need any help . . . " he asks, his voice trailing off. He means do I need help undressing.

I shake my head, and a wave of dizziness warps the room. "But keep the door open a crack?" I ask. "In case I get sick again."

The shampoo smells delicious, like coconut and limes and the conditioner is even more coco-nutty. My legs, though getting their strength back, still shake when I lift one to wash between. I haven’t had a proper bath in a week, and this feels delicious. I leave the conditioner in for a long time, letting the hot water splash over my neck and back. Then I rinse off and turn the handle hard to "Off."

When I step out of the shower, I see a paper bag in the sink. Inside is a small tube of shea butter lotion, rose scented. Not the cheap stuff. I kind of want to cry again. And there's clothes in there too, a pair of clean navy-blue sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I slip them on and cinch up the sweat pants as much as I can, rolling up both the legs and the sleeves. These are all his clothes and they are way too big. But they're clean and soft and feel lovely against my skin.

By the time I've wandered out to the kitchen counter, he has a bar stool pulled up and a big salad made and some shredded poached chicken and mayo which sounds awful, but it had garlic in it like an aioli and it’s so good, so delicious, I can feel tears well again. He pulls out half an avocado and starts to slice it in the skin, then turns and dumps the whole thing on my plate, as I'm eating.

I sigh. A bit too loudly because his head snaps over to look at me. "Feel better?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Lots of reasons." He licks a finger and settles in the barstool next to me and stabs a hunk of chicken. "One, because you're not from here," he begins, waving his fork, "Two, no woman, no girl, no guy, should ever be raped. When I was young, I stood by and watched two girls get gang raped. And I did nothing," he finishes around a mouthful. "I did nothing to protect them. I was scared shitless. I walked away. I left the room and shut the door behind me. It's one of the reasons I joined the gym. They've been doing this for a decade. Roll the die."

"It’s an initiation thing then."

Nodding he explains, "It’s a gang rape."

"What did they do to you?"

Seeming to make some decision, he stands. "This," he says, and peels off his shirt. Standing under the strong light, I can see little scars all over his back, with some larger scars across his shoulder blades and another, slightly raised one that looks like a stab wound.

My eyes must have held the question.

"I rolled a five too."

I still can't piece it together.

Stretching the shirt back over his massive torso, he lines up the dots for me. "Whoever showed up for the initiation got to beat the shit out of me. For five minutes. Shreves has a timed buzzer. I nearly died. Coach got me to a hospital."

I blanked. Coach?

"Coach at the gym."

The little wiry black guy who told Shreves off yesterday.

I want to cry. I want to cry that I ever doubted him. I want to cry for the pain he went through. And I want to cry for the pain I'm going through right now. But crying isn’t going to help anyone. I want to know more.

So does he.

"Here's the thing. I want to know why you're here."

Guilt washes over me like yellow paint.

"What is in it for you? Why do you want to join this gang? Because I don't really think you do. I think this's all a front."

Now he attacks his salad with a thin fork. "This is all some sort of plan you have. What are you? Some rookie cop in too deep? You don't even look old enough to be a cop. Are you in high school?"

I stare at him. "I'm not a cop. And I'm certainly not in high school."

"How old are you?"