Dear Planet Earth,
Still no luck trying to escape from our homeless captors who are inconceivably armed like former disgraced government mercenaries. Diana and I’ve spent countless hours screaming, reassembling our phones, and flooding the Internet with pleas for help. The weird thing is, these people don’t seem to care about our sometimes blatant attempts to flee, as if they know all our effort will only make us more tired and hopeless. They’re even feeding us pretty well with, what I suspect to be, a menu straight from Denny’s.
It’s all very odd; it might even be romantic if there wasn’t that whole problem with the unwillingness and AK-47s. I came to the conclusion that these people don’t want to kill us, and I felt more confident about that this morning when one of them, possibly their leader, came into our motel room with a hearty breakfast.
“How are you doing this morning?” he asked.
Diana shot him the disgusted look she’s grown accustomed to here and said, “Does it matter?”
He laughed and took a slice of orange from her plate. “No, I guess it really doesn’t.”
The man unbolted the door and was about to leave when he turned back to look at me. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Your name’s Scott Panus, right?”
I quickly answered, “Yeah.” Now I wish I had said something biting and snotty like Diana did.
He nodded his head as he left and we could hear the rusty outside lock slide back into place.
I’ve been trying to think about what they could have seen in my backpack with my name on it. I’m coming up with zilch.