When the interrogators left the room, Finley tried not to laugh.

He knew they were at least watching him through the one-way mirror if not also listening to him through hidden microphones. He stared straight ahead at the grey concrete wall and stifled the urge to snicker by breathing deeply through his nose. He didn't want to provoke them by laughing but it was difficult not to. He moderated his breaths, counting them to distract himself.

"One deep breath in. One deep breath out. Two deep breath in. Two deep breath out. Three deep breath in. Three deep breath out. Four deep breath in. Four deep breath out. Five deep breath in. Five deep breath out. Six deep breath in. Sex deep breath out. Wait, did I just say six or sex?" The breath escaped out of his nose in a snort. Finley bit his lip. Counting would not be distracting enough.

This wasn't anything like he expected. When they took him, he was terrified of breaking easily. He wondered just how bad the torture would be, just how brutal the questioning, just how intense the psychological battering. He wondered just how much he could take before telling them everything he knew. He wasn't trained for this. He couldn't even make it through a hand of poker without giggling when he got two pair.

When the two men left him in the interrogation room, Finley had no idea how much time had passed -- seven hours? eight? maybe even twelve? -- but it had all been fairly simple. It was almost comical how calm and polite the agents were. They were intimidating, certainly. And yet, Finley no longer felt fear. Of course, they could return at any moment with harsher questioning and painful coersion tactics. They could return at any moment with a needle filled with some experimental top-secret drug designed to induce hallucinations or even work as a truth serum. They could return. But thus far, the entire interrogation process had been shocking only in its ease. The most burdensome part for Finley had been trying not to fidget with boredom. And now he had to fight the urge to laugh.

Luckily for Finley, he had plenty of practice navigating boredom and suppressing ill-timed giggling fits. "Afterall," he thought to himself while continuing his deep breathing exercises, this time reciting sad, no-laughing-matter poetry by Sylvia Plath and Edna St. Vincent Millay, "I have survived plenty of dinner parties at Julian & Caleb's."