"One-eighty, more or less," he tells her. "Don't have a heart attack. I had one who did."

She stares at him with eyes bigger than a full moon, her lower lip twitching.

"I mean it. Don't have a heart attack." He is serious.

It is an order.

"Take a deep breath."

She does, her lungs shaky.

"Better?"

"Yes. Please…"

"Why is it that all of you little lambs are so fucking polite?"

Her dirty magenta cotton shirt had been torn open days ago, and he spreads the ripped front, exposing her more than ample breasts. They tremble and shimmer in the faint light, and he follows their round slopes down to her heaving rib cage, to the hollow of her flat abdomen, down to the unzipped fly of her jeans.

"I'm sorry," she tries to whisper as a tear rolls down her dirt-streaked face.

"Now, there you go again." He sits back in his throne of the captain's chair. "Do you really, really believe that being polite is going to change my plans?" The politeness sets off a slow burning rage. "Do you know what politeness means to me?"

He expects an answer.

She tries to wet her lips, her tongue as dry as paper. Her pulse visibly pounds in her neck, as if a tiny bird is trapped in there.

"No." She chokes on the word, tears flowing into her ears and hair.

"Weakness," he says.

Several frogs strike up the band. Jay studies his prisoner's nakedness, her pale skin shiny with bug repellent, a small humane act on his part, motivated by his distaste for red welts. Mosquitoes are a gray, chaotic storm around her but do not land. He gets down from his chair again and gives her a sip of bottled water. Most of it runs down her chin. Touching her sexually is of no interest to him.