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This is Part X of Christian Science Monitor reporter Jill Carroll's story on her ordeal in Iraq, where she was held hostage for 82 days. Her first-person story appears here with additional narrative by Peter Grier.

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The evening of March 29, Katie Carroll went to a party with some of her friends. Earlier that day, she had gone on the Arab satellite television network, Al Arabiya, to plead for her sister's life.

When she got home that night, Katie imagined - as she had before - how great it would be if the phone would ring, and she would answer it, and it would be Jill, and this would all be over.

Just like that.

- P.G.

***

Little Hajar toddled away from the sagging bookcase holding a chapter of the Koran in her hand. She was heading for the foot-pedaled sewing machine, where a shiny candy wrapper had caught her attention.

She grabbed the wrapper, then showed me her treasures. She wasn't yet 2 years old and was so small that our eyes were at the same level as I sat cross-legged on the floor of the house west of Fallujah. I'd been here almost two weeks and March was almost over.

"What's that? What's that? Oooh, wow," I said, admiringly.

Hajar was great to play with despite the fact that her dress-and-jacket outfits were often smeared with yogurt or other messy food. Sometimes she'd bang on the door of my room to be let in. She was my only friend, the one person in this mujahideen household not responsible for my captivity.

This time, as the candy wrapper sparkled in her hand, the door suddenly opened. I looked up, expecting to see Hajar's mother or father coming to bring me tea or food as usual.

Instead, I glimpsed Abu Nour's visage as he entered. As always, the leader of these mujahideen had come out of nowhere, like an apparition. I cast my eyes to the ground, afraid he'd think I knew too much about his face.

Hajar collapsed into the velveteen of my dishdasha tunic and buried her face in it, afraid of this stranger.

"I know how ya feel, kid," I thought as I stroked her fine hair and small, motionless back.

What did Ink Eyes want? I hadn't seen him for three weeks. He'd promised then that he would release me in three days - a promise that had been just as worthless as the many other times he'd vowed I was on the brink of freedom.

I had learned to stop believing the promises, to protect myself from that terrible tease called hope.

I used to cling to every word Abu Nour said, analyzing them for days afterward for any hint of my fate. Now, after almost three months of captivity, I just didn't have the mental energy to do that anymore.

Instead, all I wanted was to minimize pain and have good days. A few minutes of playing with a child or helping women in the kitchen was an attainable goal. Seeing my family again - that was impossibly far away, a dream.

I stroked Hajar's hair, only half-listening to Abu Nour drone on. I just wished he would go so Hajar and I could resume our game.

"Well, today is Monday, and tomorrow is Tuesday," Abu Nour was saying. "So maybe in three days we'll let you go."

Twenty-four hours before my release he would return and we could have a final conversation about the mujahideen, he added.

I'd heard all this a million times.

"Oh thank you, sir," I said, trying to smile as he left.

"Yeah, right," I thought. "Don't listen to him. Don't get your hopes up, Jill. Just don't do it."

This was my theory: They were worried about my mental state. Since my bitter blow-ups with the Muj Brothers, Abu Qarrar and Abu Hassan, the mujahideen seemed to think I was fragile. Abu Nour hadn't seen me in awhile, and he had just come to say hello. Maybe he thought a dose of false hope would keep me from doing something drastic.

It was late March. "Dad's birthday is May 6," I thought. "If they let me out before May 6, that will be OK. That's all I really want."

Abu Nour had come on Monday. Tuesday was OK: I got to play with Hajar. Then Wednesday came around. I can't remember why, but I lost it.

I sobbed the whole day. Quietly, so they wouldn't hear me. I was so tired, so worn out. I'd been fooling myself, thinking some days were happy. It had been three months and I was drifting further and further away from my family, from my life. Enough was enough. "Let me out!" I screamed to myself. "Let me out!"

That night, I was sitting in my room in the dark, all upset. And I heard Abu Nour's voice.

They brought me into the sitting room after dinner. As always, I smelled his distinctive cologne before I saw him. Abu Nour sat cross-legged on the floor, his head bent toward the ground.

He had told me he was going to come back 24 hours before I was released.

"Tomorrow morning, we're going to let you go," he said. "We're going to drive you to the Iraqi Islamic Party and you will call your newspaper and you will be free."

I had no reaction. He might as well have said, "Here, have some tea."

Then came the catch: I needed to make one more video. And I needed to forget much of what he had told me about himself and his group, as well as much of what I had seen.

I had to forget about the Majlis, or council, of mujahideen that he had claimed to lead. I had to say his group was medium-sized, not big, not small.

"You can't talk about the women and children," said Ink Eyes. "You have to say you were in one room the whole time and ... you were treated very well."

I was supposed to "interview" him one last time, and he would tell me what I was supposed to say to the world. He handed me a notebook in which I was to write down his words.

"Anything outside the notebook is forbidden," he said.