Officer Backup, aka Buddy, was apparently named Mr. Jackson. Like I believe that.

"Mr. Jackson, I've told you a hundred times. I don't know anything about that country. Or that coup. And I'm really ready to get past this part of the interview to the part where someone pops out and says I've been punk'd or whatever."

"My colleague is still looking into some things," he said noncommittally. "Which means you still have time to come clean."

"Come clean? Are you going to let me shower? Get me pants that cover my whole leg? Maybe a blanket?"

His eyes wandered down my disheveled, blood and mud covered clothes until they landed on the side of my leg where there were virtually no pants to speak of. A blush immediately filled his face and his eyes snapped up to mine.

I'd be lying if I said that wasn't exactly what I wanted to do. "Like what you see, Mr. Jackson?"

I was almost as bad at flirting as this man was at dealing with seeing a little upper leg.

"Miss Holland. I've told you more than once that you are here for a very serious crime. Now please tell me what you know about the people who are planning the coup."

"I've told you a hundred times!" I flung my hands into the air very dramatically, now that my makeshift handcuffs had been removed. "I have no idea who these people are. My Twitter account had like fifty followers this morning. I don't even know how anyone would have seen my tweet. And it certainly didn't start any coups. You have the wrong girl."

A sharp knock on the door jerked me right out of my chair and I soon found myself sliding down the splintered desk chair and landing flat on my butt on the floor, legs splayed in front of me like a mannequin dropped down the stairs.

"One moment, please." Mr. Jackson did have a knack for keeping his facial expressions neutral in the face of embarrassment that was not his own. He bounced across the room to open the door and reveal his partner Mr. Not-So-Handsome-Anyway standing in the doorway.

"I can take it from here, Jackson."

"Thanks, Anderson."

A curt not exchanged between the two and Mr. Not-So-Handsome, who was obviously not actually Anderson, came into the room carrying my phone.

"Finally," I sighed, heaving myself up onto the nearby chair. "I was starting to wonder if you people actually believed I'd started some coup or something. Can I call Olivia now?"

There were at least four clocks in the room, all of which had different times, so I had no way of really deciding how much time had passed between my arrival and the present return of my phone, but I was relatively confident Olivia had been do our lunch appointment alone and, given the way gossip spreads in that community, she must have been privy to at least sixteen different versions of what happened to me. Most of them were probably even more outrageous than what was actually going on, I'm sure.

And while I wanted to believe Olivia had set the whole thing up, a small part of me worried about her. What if she didn't know?

And if she did set it up, I'm perfectly happy to give her an earful.

Mr. Anderson, as I have to call him now, broke me out of my thoughts by scraping a metal chair across the concrete floor and then sitting down on the rug beside the desk.

"So, let's say I believe you..." he began. Oh, shit.

"If I believe you," he started again. "And that's a pretty big if at the moment. But if I believe you, I'm going to need more information to convince the bosses. Start from the beginning."

"The beginning? Of my life? Or just my Twitter account probably. Okay, well it was about three months ago when I was drinking a coffee with Olivia and making a package of breakfast sausage. And well, Olivia isn't very patient really so she..."

"Ms. Holland," he interrupted. "Ms. Holland perhaps we can skip ahead to this particular tweet?"

"Oh, yes." No one appreciates the process anymore. "Well, what happened was I ran out of English Muffins. I mean, if I'm being honest they got a little mouldy. So anyway I had to improvise on this morning's breakfast sandwich. I have a commitment to my followers. I have to post."

He raised his eyebrow as if to remind me to skip ahead again. Luddite.

"So, after that I found a croissant in the breadbox that was maybe a little stale but still looked good so I cooked up some... right, skip ahead. Well then I put the sandwich together and took all those pictures you already probably illegally checked out on my phone until I found one that looked good. Then I posted it as you see. And then I went to work."

"Where you forgot to change into pants that have seams?"

"Yes, as I've said before. At least twice. You think I'm like this on purpose?" I didn't even let him answer before adding. "Can I have some coffee? I've been here for like a year and this is just cruel torture."

He completely ignored my request for coffee. Rude.

"So, you did not secretly embed information in the image to trigger an underground group of rebels in Kyrcaliai?"

"Have you met me?" How does one even embed information in an image? Is that possible?

"Yes, which is why I'm inclined to believe you."

Ouch. True, but ouch.

"So, if you believe me, what can I do to get myself out of here?"

"You could always help us," he said, nonchalant as he spun my phone between his fingers.

I raised my eyebrow and lunged forward to snatch my phone out of his hands, completely forgetting the state of my pants, which caught on a nail or screw or something. You'd think they would just break at that point, but apparently it caught on the one part of my pants that still had any structural integrity because I found myself snapped back into the chair like a bungee jumper returning to the bridge he just left.

"Fine," I said, crossing my arms. "I'll help. But first, I need to know how on earth I can possibly be helpful when I didn't do any of this on purpose. And second, I need new pants. And I want them to be purple. With stars."

"You don't make demands," he reminded me. His face was worse than his friend's at keeping emotions out of it. He was warming up to my impenetrable charm, but I was definitely cooling off to his lack thereof. There are some things not even a god-like body can make up for. What can I say?

"Well, if you want my help, then I do. I think it's reasonable to have clothing that covers me with you and the blushing Mr. Jackson running around. I've been through enough."

"Fine. New pants. As for what you'd have to do, there are a couple options."