Nellie struggled with the next sit-up. Alistair had collapsed at seventeen. Fiske had kept up until forty. Natalie was humming to herself as she moved. Ted was concentrating, perspiration on his forehead. And Phoenix was following Reagan easily.

“Sixty. Good job, people. Done for the day.”

“Thank you,” Alistair breathed.

“All right,” Reagan said. “Tomorrow we’ll tackle shoulders and arms. That means push-ups, people! And if you want to fit in some extra ab work after dinner, I’ll be cranking out some more crunches.”

At the mention of dinner, Nellie’s stomach growled. “Please don’t mention food,” she said.

Just then they heard the sound of the dumbwaiter shuddering down. Fiske went over and lifted the panel. “Cabbage and potatoes,” he said.

Nellie shook her fist at the camera closest to her. “Hey, bozos!” she yelled. “Get a decent chef!”

“Yelling doesn’t work, remember?” Fiske said mildly. He took out the casserole dish while Alistair set out paper plates. “The last time you complained about the food, we got bread and water.”

“I know,” Nellie said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that … what I wouldn’t give for a poulet roti aux herbes. With crispy frites. And I’d really like to see the look on the French waiter’s face when I ask for ketchup.”

“I miss salad,” Natalie said.

“Cookies,” Phoenix said.

“Sushi,” Fiske said.

“Bibimbap,” Alistair put in. “Or a chicken burrito with chipotle sauce.”

“Grilled cheese sandwiches,” Ted murmured. “With pickles.”

Everybody stared down at the cabbage and potatoes on their plates.

Fiske picked up his fork. He took a bite. “Delicious.”

They all exchanged glances. There was nothing to do but eat.

Nellie chewed the overcooked potatoes and the limp cabbage. The casserole dish was scraped clean. Their kidnappers were not generous with portions.