I was too weak to stand when my husband zipped his suitcase and smiled. “You’ll be fine for a few weeks,” he said before leaving for Europe with his family. Hours later, I discovered my medication was gone, the power and water had been shut off, and every door was locked from the outside. I thought he had left me there to d:ie...

Jason zipped his suitcase while I was too weak to lift my head from the pillow.

“You’ll be fine for a few weeks,” he said.

“Seventy-four days isn’t a few weeks.”

He checked his reflection in the bedroom mirror. His light-blue shirt was pressed, his hair neatly combed. Mine was damp from fever, and my gray sweatshirt smelled faintly of the menthol cream I rubbed into my aching joints.

My autoimmune disease had been under control until three months earlier. Then the exhaustion, dizziness and muscle weakness returned. My doctor increased my daily steroid dose and warned Jason that stopping it suddenly could trigger a medical crisis.

Jason attended that appointment.

“You have groceries,” he said. “Dana will check on you.”

Dana Reynolds was the home-health nurse who visited twice a week.

“I can’t get downstairs alone.”

“My family planned this trip years ago. I’m not canceling because you’re scared.”

He kissed my forehead and carried his suitcase downstairs.

Through the window, I watched Jason leave with his parents, Linda and Mark, and his nineteen-year-old sister, Emma. Linda waved from the SUV. Emma looked back at the house until they turned onto the street.

Two hours later, I reached for my pill organizer.

Every compartment was empty.

The prescription bottles were gone from the bathroom. My phone had no service. The Wi-Fi router was dark.

Then the ceiling fan slowed to a stop.

I dragged myself downstairs one step at a time. The kitchen faucet produced a dry cough. The front deadbolt would not turn because a second lock had been fastened from outside. The back door was secured the same way.

Four windows had been screwed into their frames.

Jason had not forgotten to prepare the house.

He had prepared it for me.

In the junk drawer, beneath old batteries and takeout menus, I found a small prepaid phone. A strip of green tape on the back carried Emma’s initials.

It had six percent battery.

The charger beside it had been crushed.

I called 911. The first call dropped. On the second, I gave the dispatcher my name and the word “Knoxville” before the screen went black.

Near midnight, mud scraped across the back porch.

A key turned in the exterior lock.

Mark stepped into the kitchen wearing the pale shirt he had worn to the airport. He stared at me on the floor, then at the empty pill bottle beside my hand.

“Please,” I whispered. “Call an ambulance.”

He took out his phone.

Before dialing, he called Jason.

I heard my husband’s voice through the speaker.

“She’s doing this to stop the trip. Leave the bottled water and go.”

Mark stood over me for several seconds.