…Immediately, Cora comes to put the restrictive band back on MacLeod’s legs, above the knees. He hides disappointment, stretching. When he finishes, he finds Arturo standing right before him. Arms crossed, gun in hand.

Do I say something now? Would it set him off? Or would it give me a better chance of getting out of here?

“Bueno, MacLeod. I suppose I should say, ‘Thank you for exercising the men.’ Or ‘You have amazing skills. We are so fortunate to be among your magnificence.’ Something along those lines?”

“No, sir.”

Do it. Try!

“‘Sir’?” Arturo’s eyes are wide in surprise, flashing threat. “Why do you use ‘Sir’? Why would you call me that? Out of sarcasm?” A smile has crept into his lips.

He’s smiling. Things are going south. Do something.

“I-I’m used to doing it. As a sign of respect. Arturo, please, I’m not who you think I am.”

“You are MacLeod.”

“No, I’m—”

He’s cut off by the leash choking his neck. He coughs, turning to find Cora, who wears a wicked smirk. “Sorry,

Darling,” she says. “We don’t want you to enjoy too much freedom. And we all have reasons for being here…”