My husband fixes cars for a living. Or so I believed for two years. He comes home with grease on his hands and a tired smile and he makes pasta on Thursdays and he remembers that I hate cilantro. He is the most ordinary, most decent, most quietly wonderful person I have ever known.

I believed this completely. Right up until the moment three men in black tactical gear broke into our apartment and took me.

I was at the kitchen table when they came through the door. I had time to scream once. Then I was in a van, then a private airfield, then a plane, and I had no idea where I was going or why, and I was terrified in the specific, animal way that happens when the world stops making sense.

And then the plane landed. And the door opened. And there were more men in black, and black cars, and a building that looked like a government facility, and I was thinking: this is a mistake, they have the wrong person, I am nobody, I am a graphic designer from a small apartment, I have nothing anyone would want.

And then Kai walked in.