It’s 3AM. My whole body aches from stress, from worry, from my pounding head, and after such a long day, all four limbs don’t want to move anymore.

My throat is raw and dry, first from crying too much, and now from holding back my tears, something I’ve had to do because when Sage and I freaked out after getting our hands on copies of the ransom letter that was sent regarding our father, we’d lost it. So much so, that Mrs. Felix had started questioning if we needed a doctor to prescribe us Valium, or at the very least a team of therapists.

People didn’t understand that Sage and I had bottled up our tears ever since our dad went missing. These were tears we’d been holding back for nearly two years. First, they were tears of relief, then heck-yes, once we realized that we still didn’t have any concrete answers about our dad, even with the ransom note in hand, we shed more. More because of a new layer of fear that he may not be okay—or worse. Based on the crap photographs they’d shown to us, we then shed tears of utter desolation because we couldn’t make out if what we were seeing was really our father or not. Interspersed inside of all of those horrible tears, there were also tears of gratitude for Royce, Gregory and Mrs. Felix, tears for the team that got this far—and for those who are still helping us find out more information.

Of course, they told us, that no matter how much things were pointing in the right direction, that we were not to get our hopes up.

“We need, proof of life,” one guy had said.

Proof of life.

Words that made us cry even more. Words that have bounced around and around inside of my head, shredding up my heart, and words that and nearly scraped out the insides of my aching eyes.

Proof of life.

This is why I’ve not slept and why I’ve been hiding in the bathroom for the last two hours, because…I’ve been working so hard to tamp every emotion I finally released today about my father back down into the Pandora’s box I’d had them shoved into.

Only, I haven’t been successful, because once a box like that has been opened…well…I’m screwed. Despite what they’ve all advised us about hoping? Our hopes are sky-high. How could they not be?

Exhausted now, I’ve finally crept out of the bathroom and I creep into the main part of the room, going up on my tip-toes to confirm, that yes—success. Sage and Royce appear to be sound asleep.

I head toward the bed cautiously, longing for the softness waiting in my pillow and the down blanket, wanting the oblivion sleep can give me, that I’m now craving.

I check again on Sage who’s tossing and turning under his own soft down blanket. He’s on a roll away bed we’d had brought in to the room. He’d wanted to sleep in our room instead of sleeping in his own ever since he arrived in London.

It was a request I was happy he’d made, and happier to grant, because since we’ve had this news about our father, I’ve had this silly and irrational idea that I should be holding my little brother tucked up on my lap just like I used to do when he was small and very upset. The kid…that’s all he’s been…is very, very upset.

Only, he’s hardly a kid anymore. Taller than I am now, as well as, Sage has had new levels of independence since I’ve been married. Under the watchful eye of this supportive new family that came with my marriage, he’s had his own hotel rooms, his own quarters in Mrs. Felix’s apartments in NYC, as well as quarters within the apartment Royce and Mrs. Felix set up for ‘Mr. and Mrs. Devlin’ one floor down from Mrs. Felix’s apartment as well. He’s been hanging with his rockstar idols and, unlike me, Sage has no problem spending the allowance Mrs. Felix has given to him.

So…yeah, I’m happy he still wants me, still leans on me when he needs me during this time. Maybe I can’t squeeze him like he’s a little stuffed animal anymore, but I’m happy to pull his blankets just right, and fuss over his hair when he’s sound asleep and completely unaware of it. The feeling I have when I look at his handsome, flushed face right now, must be what my father had always felt when he used to tell me with this sappy look on his face how bittersweet it was that I was growing up so beautifully right in front of his eyes.

Making sure Sage’s feet are tucked under the blanket, I head for the steady rhythm of Royce’s deep breathing. The sound is like a balm to my ragged-feeling-soul. The guy has been hovering over me nonstop since we got the news—as is his way—heck as is his whole personality. Only, I think, after the last 4o hours or so, the only escape Royce has allowed himself away from worrying about me and Sage, happens while he’s sleeping and so I’m very grateful that he’s finally let himself go to a place where he can recharge some.

Before I crawl in, I take in his beautiful face and I bite my upper lip, watching as Royce smiles in his sleep, but then I wonder if he’s dreaming about how his life used to be before his fake wife and her problems consumed his world. Like…what did this guy fret about before we showed up, took over his mind, his worries, his entire bank account, his private hotel rooms—heck even his very own bed?

I swallow, crawling into my side, pushing away those stupid words again.

Proof of life…

What if our dad is not alive. What if he’s never coming back…what if he is alive but he comes back changed…or broken, and not at all how we’d imagined he’d come back?

I push back the attacking ‘what ifs’ and force my thoughts onto the facts I do know now. On the one solid thing--is that the investigators told us that the ransom note appears to be real.

Real is good news. Good news. Real is good.

As I scoot deep under the covers, I eye the pillow fortress Royce has built up between us tonight and for the first time, I decide I hate that we have it always between us. Royce has built it triple high tonight, out of respect to my little brother being in here with us. Sage even helped him make it by adding in some seat cushions off the two reading chairs that are in front of the fireplace.

Suddenly I’m freezing—with worry, with my stupid hopefulness, with utter fear, and I acknowledge that all I want right now is to be next to Royce’s constant heat. To be in the arms of my new best friend and to listen to his very-steady breathing up close, place my hand over his loudly beating heart, because I feel like my own heart and lungs might not work by themselves anymore.

I eye the pillows, deciding I’m going to move them all, figuring I could explain why I needed to be held by Royce should Sage wake up and catch me wrapped in his arms, because…heck yes. I breathe out a long breath. I’m doing it…who cares what society and propriety say, anyhow.

Why can’t I have his arms around me? Why…?

Because you will wake Royce, up, that’s why. Because you need to do this on your own, that’s why…

Just as I’m about to fling pillows right and left…I take a deep breath and hold my impulse, leaving all in place. I cross my arms over my stomach instead and roll onto my side, curling my legs up so I’m half in a ball—so I can make my own heat. Comfort myself.

I do need to be able to do this on my own.

It’s my job to worry about my Dad, not Royce’s. It’s up to me, only me, to be awake late, thinking about ‘what’s next’ for my little family.

Only weeks ago, I was strong enough to run away to Orlando with Sage and try to start a life for us all on my own. Two months ago, I was strong enough to steal food out of hotels to get us fed, and brave enough to accept an insane job offer to work for Royce. And then, on the fly, I had to be brave enough, all alone, to decide to leap into the abyss and marry this guy the very same day I found out he wasn’t a jerk and that everyone was lying to me—all to save Sage from being sent to foster care.

As I feel my throat thicken and the tears start to creep into the edges of my eyes again, I sniffle into my pillow wondering where that brave-badass-girl who never cried has disappeared to? Is it so bad or wrong to want his arms around my body? Is me, relying on him so much, making me weak? I sniffle again, trying not to feel guilty about how much this guy has given to me.

We are friends, right? He’s always saying that. Is it wrong to want his non-stop comfort when he so willingly gives it to me? And…after that kiss we shared on the landing back at the castle…is it wrong to wish we could kiss like that again?

And again?

So many people have the friends with benefits thing going on, and Royce kissing me a lot in public, that’s one amazing benefit I’ve shared with him all along. But that last kiss we shared, well, that just upped all of my expectations of how I hope to kiss for the rest of my life.

And now, after how he held me so sweetly in the limo all the way back here to the London Orb Hotel, smoothing my hair and keeping me close. Is it…too much to want more?

More. More. More. More…what? If I want anything more, then I’m the one that’s selfish in this relationship, not him. I must be losing my mind. I can’t want more when he’s given me everything…

I shake my head, trying to clear it, telling myself that I’m losing it, begging myself to just go to sleep. I stare into the dark room, watching how the lights from outside makes small stripes on the sheer curtains covering our window.

Royce Devlin has given me his time, his concern, his name, his family, loans—and after this weekend, his open and honest friendship. I’ll never be able to repay this generous person—friend—husband—all that he is to me, whatever he is to me.

He’d even read the ransom letter out loud for me when I couldn’t do it myself. That’s when I’d found out Royce, or Guarderobe, or Mrs. Felix, or all of them collectively, have offered up ten million dollars for the safe return of my father.

My head spins every time I think of what they’d done. Of the amount they laid down to literally buy my father—even buy simple information about my father.

Ten. Million. Dollars. Cash.

According to the note, this money is supposed to be delivered as stacks of 1k each, wrapped in neat little rubber bands and stuffed inside an unassuming black duffle bag, just like what you’d see in the trunk of a car in a movie!

My head spins with the amount.

Ten. Million Dollars.

Proof of life.

Those last words make more white-hot fear crash through me. My skin is lost in a swarm of clammy goosebumps as I can’t escape the memory of the attorney who was overseeing the transactions. He’d mentioned this proof of life to us with such a dry and clinical voice. Saying, that if the kidnappers couldn’t provide that, with something tangible and recognizable, then we’d need some real, and valid proof of death.

Because… if this is all fraud—fake—like some horrible people pretending they’ve found my father so they can trick us into sending money. Then a second investigation will happen quickly. One where people will pay much less for…this…horrible proof of death.

Apparently, death proving is cheaper than life proving…

They’d said we’d have to be patient. That if we thought the worst had happened, they would ask for a delivery of our father’s dog tags, or clear photographs where we could easily identify his body—at least something like that before one dollar exchanged hands.

It will take time to navigate this portion of the negotiations because Uganda is a place like no other. People have their own ways, it’s all very corrupt there, and we will be moving very slowly to make sure everyone involved stays safe.

Dead. Or. Alive. Time. Takes time. Ten. Million. Dollars.

The letter from the kidnappers had come via email and had been very short. One sentence, to be exact that read: We have the man you are seeking, officer Bradley Love, so please contact us again as to how you would like to make this exchange.

Attached to the email were three random cell phone numbers, a photocopy of Dad’s military ID, and two photographs. Those pictures are what I’ve been trying to get out of my head since the moment I saw them.

One was a shot where there was what looked like my father’s passport, his military ID, and a blurry photograph of who they said was, Captain, Bradley Thomas Love. Next to that, in the same photo was what seemed to be the military issue Velcro patch that would have been placed on my father’s shirt, and it did spell out the name: LOVE.

Unfortunately, it was so blurry we couldn’t make out any features of his face. The second one, showed a man, knees up and back to the wall, leaning against what one of the investigators called a classic village ‘mud hut’. Which meant, he was being held somewhere rural.

The man in that photo was so skinny, and the picture also so blurry, neither Sage or I could confirm if it was our dad or not. The investigators told us not to be excited about the presence of Dad’s military ID, either, because those could be made, bought and sold on the black market—a common practice over there—the man had said.

At that point Sage had lost it more than I had—and his tears had flowed so hard they’d made nearly in the room everyone tear up, including the loud mouthed investigator.

Like Royce knew we both needed to be taken away from conversations going around and around us, he’d hustled us both back to this suite. He’d announced to everyone that it was late, that we’d had a long day of touring, and that Sage most probably was starving. He also covered the part how Sage looked pale and was possibly in shock, by telling everyone it was obvious he was dead on his feet from jet lag.

Once he got us both alone, he’d said what I was thinking but was unable to utter to Sage, because I, also think I’d gone into in shock.

Royce told us both that we needed stay positive and to keep on living life. That Sage and I already knew how to get through this day and this information, because we’d been doing it all along—MIA is MIA, until it isn’t, right?

But when I’d asked him in a whisper so Sage couldn’t hear me, how I could go on living life if the skinny-sick looking man in the photo was actually our father? Or, how I’d go on if someone delivered dog-tags to me?

He’d wrapped me so deep into his warm embrace and told that he didn’t know how I’d do it, but that he’d be there for me no matter what. That comment made me able to breathe again. Made it so I didn’t melt down in front of Sage again, either.

Then he dragged my brother into the hug, too. He reminded Sage and I that our father would want us to carry on together, just how we’d been doing all along. Reminded us that nothing had really changed, that tomorrow we could still look at the world with our same bright blue eyes and continue to pray and hope for the best. That is what our Dad would wish. Crying and stopping our lives, no matter what the news, was not an option…because if our dad knew we were breaking down, dead or alive, it would crush our father.

And…he was right.

* * *

After a long half hour of trying to sleep, I’ve at least, calmed down my headache, and I’ve stopped the random shaking thing that had been going on ever since I crawled into bed. And though I’m upset that I’m not asleep—because I really want to just black out—I congratulate myself on how Royce is sleeping like a baby on the other side of the pillows tower we’d made, and Sage, who’d asked last minute, if he could sleep on a rollaway bed near us, is also sound asleep.

At least they’re both getting what they need. Better, I’m relieved my ongoing distress hasn’t disturbed either of them or set off Royce’s worry-radars for once. He’s actually sleeping so deeply I’m giving myself the bronze medal for being able to get my own shit together—all on my own, just like old times.

It’s not perfect because I’m so happy they’re both near me right now—so I don’t deserve a silver or a gold, but I think I’m at least back on the podium for champion levels of unassisted-self-control.

And because I’m doing so well, because I haven’t even snuck out one tear in hours, I decide to go further. Why should I wait to ask questions of the investigator guy tomorrow when I can find out stuff by myself?

I pull out my phone and Google phrases like: US military involvement in Uganda. Then: What is the country of Uganda like? And: News stories about Ugandan rebels or Ugandan poachers, and lastly: Facts about the Ugandan/African ivory trade.

With each search, I devour page after page of facts, thumb through hundreds of horrible heartbreaking images of dead rhinos and elephants guarded over by angry looking and defiant men and boys. Next, I search for other other hostage and or kidnapping stories that were written about happening Africa, past and present.

My next searches have me Googling articles so I can understand the complicated relationships the US Military has with Uganda, and then I give myself a crash study on how the US deals with other African countries. Though, truthfully, this is hard because I’m so ignorant on this topic, even more ignorant about the countries of Africa, but I settle on reading up on countries like Cameroon, Gabon, and Congo. Ones that also have ivory poaching and huge corrupt transit rings where the Ivory is run through. Countries, sadly, that I’d never even thought about once before today.

My had father once explained to me that main reasons our troops go into Africa, these days, is because new wars crop up in the middle of old treaties the US has promised to help honor—treaties from long ago. The old treaties aside, our military also goes there to try to stabilize governments and to help governments decide who will have control over things like oil, diamonds, water and coal. We try to work on human rights issues and on a smaller and tragic level, we get caught up in trying to help stop things like the ivory trade and to protect the environment where we can.

So far, I’m surmising from my research that our troops don’t actively engage in battles there, but that we will give supplies and training to the governments of these countries, as well as defend ourselves if attacked, but we don’t help with any of these ‘wars’ as far as I can tell. If my dad was in Uganda, I would suppose training people is what he was probably doing, because that’s what he calls himself when he does talk about work. But, because he’s Special Forces, I will probably never know the truth as to what his real mission was all about. They’re often, not allowed to tell.

The investigators had told me I should be relieved that my father was picked up by ivory traders—that this was lucky—and if it’s true, it’s the best of all scenarios.

Apparently, the traders operate more like old fashioned mafia guys. They’re business men, and all about gaining more cold-hard-cash any way they can and less about killing random foreigners like some groups do. They also use hostages to trade with. Like, to gain ‘forgiveness from the law or to pay off corrupt government officials’. Ivory traders are known to hold civilians, missionaries, and even military soldiers from many countries in stockpiles for months, using prisoners like bargaining chips for when trouble arises.

Sage and I already knew that the US Military doesn’t pay these kinds of people for hostages—not ever. We get in there and get our own men out when we can, and often, we do. That’s because paying ransoms would just encourage more people to try to take hostages for themselves.

Should a civilian prove that they’re rich, or the kidnappers discover that one of the prisoners they’ve been holding has someone far away that might send money, then these people will gladly trade the prisoner for lump sums.

Unfortunately, my internet research was making sleep feel even more impossible. I now had all of those images I’d just seen online in my head. And I couldn’t get this one that was of these two kids who were not much older than Sage out of my mind. These boys—these kids—had been dressed in green army clothing and were squatting in front of a military Jeep.

The photographer had taken the photo at an such an odd, almost fisheye angle, that while they were holding their giant black machine guns—the guns seemed bigger than the boys’ whole bodies. It was beautiful, riveting, horrible art.

Instead of looking scared or afraid, these teens looked fierce and proud to be holding those guns. Worse, their expressions were so determined. The photo editing that had been done—some kind of fade-filter—had made their eyes seem so black and shiny; it was like they didn’t have pupils. Yet, I could tell by how they held the guns that they were very familiar with using them. It seemed obvious that they’d killed people with these guns. More, the photo showed that they would be okay—proud to kill more people, and possibly…without regrets.

I’d memorized the photos of the classic Ugandan village mud huts. Many of these would be clustered together to form a village. Each one was made with hand hewn, very long sticks, that were about the width of my arm. All laid beautifully on top of the round structures in an exact circle to form a roof. To me these structures seemed artistic and so beautiful. The people who’d created them were good at balance and composition. And it seems these straight laid sticks were used for everything. I’d even found a photo where they’d created these beautiful reclining stretchers out of the same sticks. Sadly, on the ones I’d found, they’d used them to lay their blood covered dead after a suicide bomb had decimated one of their villages. Though the caption under the photograph didn’t mention it, I assumed, people had taken the blasted off hut roofs and collected the sticks to make these in order to carry their dead…but…I’m not sure.

I’d even wondered, as I looked at more and more photos of these huts and villages, if one of the ones I’d seen was were my father had been held. Wondered more if he was sitting inside of one of them, even now, waiting for the pay off.

Or, maybe like the photographs I’d seen of other ‘prisoner’ rescues—rescues that had ended in the hostage dying, that maybe my dad had been kept—knees bent and tied up in a dark a hole that was dug into the floor of one of these kinds of huts…because there were plenty of images like that, too.

To keep my mind off of that, I start chanting to myself the only positive thing that one of the photo captions of those last, terrible photos did tell me: Those other hostages had died because no one came forward to pay the ransom…

No one paid the ransom…

Royce swears they are paying.

Ten.

Million.

Dollars.

Dead…or alive…

Proof. Proof of life.

* * *

When I wake up, hours later—it’s to the grey-light of early sunrise.

I’m shaking again, but I’ve been nestled safe in Royce’s arms. He’s got his chin against the top of my head and he’s breathing deep, holding me tighter than ever as though he thinks he’s going to stop the shaking for me.

And I love him. I love him so much.