"Shh," Chenoa murmurs, gently running the brush through your hair. He didn't speak much English.

On a walk one evening, you had been captured by Chenoa and brought back to his tribe, the Korihoma. You wanted to go home to your family, but he refused to even consider.

It was strange; your captor's insistence on brushing your hair every night by the fire. He would pamper you, treat you like a wife, while the other hostages were treated poorly. You couldn't tell if he liked you for some odd reason, or if he hated you like the other Englishfolk.