My steak takes up nearly three-quarters of the plate, leaving just enough space for a small baked potato dripping with butter and chives tucked alongside it.

I know it’s strange to focus on the contents of your plate when a stranger rips you from your home and leaves your mate for dead. That’s if he wasn’t dead already. But the alternative is worse. So, instead, I focus on the food.

Although the rich scent of grilled meat tickles my nose and makes my stomach grumble, I don’t do as ...