My name is Tali. I’m almost eighteen, and, believe it or not, I’m a hostage. I know, it sounds wild, but it’s true. When I was getting ready for the Nova Festival, I had no idea it would end up like this.

If I’d known there was even a chance of a terrorist attack, sure thing, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near it.

As usual, Anya and I would’ve just chilled on a bench near our house, chatting about boys and our future military bases. Then we’d run down to the beach while our moms napped, grab some ice cream, and watch the waves, surfers, and tourists. Only much later, that evening, we’d be glued to the news, seeing terrorists on motorcycles everywhere—riding through fields, shooting at civilians, and taking survivors captive. Of course, I’d be shocked and cry for a long time. But by Sunday, I’d be back at school, sitting at my desk, drawing isosceles triangles, writing an essay on globalization in English, and analyzing Yehuda Amihai’s poem “Sort of an Apocalypse.”

The man under his fig tree calls the man under his vine:

“Tonight they definitely might come. Assign

positions, armor-plate the leaves, secure the tree,

tell the dead to report home immediately.

And be ready. Always be ready.“

But sad to say, I can’t foresee the future. I have zero special talents. I have zero hobbies. Most of my life has just been school, and I didn’t exactly sparkle and shine there either. I’ve always dreamed of having some superpower—like reading minds or making ice with my hands like Elsa. It’s brutally hot eight months of the year in Israel, and I could have used such a talent in my previous life in Tel Aviv. But right about now, a different kind of super power would come in handy. With a little magic, I’d like to know what will happen to me and the other hostages. And I can’t stop wondering if Anya made it out okay and how my mom is holding up without me.

But here I am, locked in a dark dungeon. The air is hot and heavy. I’m suffocating. I’m thirsty. I’m starving. And I’m scared. My body is a mussel. My soul is a fossil. And now, on top of everything, I can’t stop blaming myself for sneaking off to that damn festival. Mom must be so worried, all because of me, all because of this stupid crush on the cutest guy at school. How could I have ever thought he and I would work out? Stupid, stupid, stupid. So freaking stupid.

I used to think I was the most restricted girl in Tel Aviv. Mom was strict about everything, as if I were either terminally ill or not all there. But the truth is, I’m healthy as anyone else, and my IQ’s actually just a bit above average—125, to be exact.

Only now, I have realized what freedom is. I am literally locked up. I can’t go to the toilet. I can’t shower. I wear other people’s clothes. I anxiously await a small portion of vile water or foul food. The guards lie all the time. They promise food or water and then don’t bring it. They say they’ll shoot me and then don’t. They say I’ll go home tomorrow, but I stay here night after night. I am like a puppet in this underground theater. They call themselves guerrillas, and I call them Gorillas. Of course, I never say it out loud. Those Gorillas pull the strings, enjoying the show. And I helplessly hang on those cords, fake smile and bow, trying to survive.