“Okay,” I agree, but I’m not doing it for Angie, nor am I doing it for the dog. Coming here allows me to slip into my old me costume, even for a few moments, and as an added bonus, I can hear those barks again.
THEN
43
When I woke up again, I was lying in bed. My stomach grumbled with hunger for the first time in days. The scent of cooked food wafted from behind the door—baked chicken and boiled rice; I was almost sure.
A female voice cried from somewhere in the building: a pleading wail. Maybe she’d only just arrived. Maybe I’d become too desensitized to care.
I rolled out of bed, wearing a T-shirt and underwear. Where were my sweatpants? Had I tossed them through the cat door? In a fit of chills and fever? I peeked through the door flap. The food tray sat within reach. I pulled it toward me and removed the dome-like cover, really wishing whoever was crying would give it a rest.
A bowl of chicken-and-rice soup sat beside a package of crackers and a container of applesauce. I took the bowl over to the hole and drank the broth, waiting for Mason to come.
But he didn’t come—not even two showers and seven additional meals later. Did he get caught out of his room? On his way back from bringing me medicine? Had he stayed with me too long?
I lay down beside the hole, trying to be optimistic like he was. Maybe he was taking advantage of every free moment by working on the escape route. I vaguely remembered him saying something about a broken bar over the window he’d found. Could he be working it as diligently as I did the mattress spring, not having time for anything else?
Still, after the delivery of three more meals, any hint of optimism evaporated like snow in water. I stuck my hand through the hole and closed my eyes, needing some trace of him—some tangible piece—to prove that he was real.
Because what if I’d only imagined him—if my mind had conjured up his existence as a means of coping with the horror of being taken? I’d asked the monster for the meds; maybe he’d been the one to bring them, rather than Mason. Was that true? Could that possibly have been true?
I reached deeper into the hole, desperate to find proof, imagining—for no logical reason—that he’d left his sweatshirt on the other side of the wall. But the narrowness of the hole stopped me at the wrist. I pushed harder, telling myself that the sweatshirt prize would be worth the tearing of skin.
At first, it was just a scrape; the raw edge of the drywall ripped the top layer of my hand. I clenched my teeth and pushed through the pain—until the scrape morphed into a gash. Blood spurted out, painting the wall red. My skin flapped open, and I let out a whimper, but still I kept reaching. Just a few more inches.
A piece of the drywall broke free, fell into the other room. I went to pull my hand out, wanting to get up, wincing from the burning-wrenching-throbbing sensation as my skin twisted away from the flesh.
I stumbled into the bathroom. Despite a woozy head, I removed the lid of the toilet tank and stuck my good hand inside. I pulled the rod out. Blood dribbled over the floor: the smell of raw meat; the feeling of combustion, as though my insides would explode—from my gut, straight up my esophagus, and shoot out my mouth.
I moved back to the dresser, opened a drawer, and fished out a T-shirt. I bit the fabric like a dog, securing it between my teeth. Then I wrapped the cut one-handed, creating a makeshift tourniquet.
The rod gripped firmly in my uninjured hand, I crouched down by the hole and did my best to chisel my way through. The drywall continued to chip, but not enough. I needed more power. My left hand wasn’t nearly as strong as my right.
I stepped into my rain boots and sat back. Propped on my elbows, I kicked outward—again and again—grinding my heels into the hole, not even stopping to question if the monster would hear me, if he’d come into my room, if he’d beat me with a baseball bat the way he did Mason.
The drywall cracked, making a zigzag line. But I needed to chisel more. I got up on my knees. Blood seeped through the cloth. Still I used that hand, reliant on its strength, and gripped the toilet rod like a carving knife. I stabbed at the wall—over and over—as I worked my way upward from floor to eye level, picturing the monster’s face, imagining slicing through his jugular.
I assumed he must’ve gone out for a bit or that he was on the top floor of the building, far from all of my noise. Part of me wanted to scream out: I’m breaking down walls, and you can’t stop me! I’ll find Mason and the others, and we’ll bust out of here.
I hammered away, my forearm singeing, my fingers throbbing. Finally, I was able to see inside the other room. It was completely dark—no windows. I kept on working, making the hole bigger. A giant chunk of the drywall crumbled to the floor, revealing a couple of plywood boards, running vertically, from floor to ceiling, set about ten inches apart.
Light from my room shone through the planks, enabling me to see about two feet inward. The room looked mostly vacant, as Mason had said. It wasn’t another cell. There was no bed.
I got up on my feet and squeezed through the planks. The air smelled musty from lack of circulation. I moved toward the wall that I assumed would have a door and searched it with my hand, trying to feel for a light switch. I found one and flicked it on—a pale yellow glow shone from a bulb by the door; none of the other bulbs were working.
The size of the room was similar to mine—about eight by ten feet, with cement walls, drop ceiling tiles (as Mason had also mentioned), and eyeball lights (but without cages). A mound of insulation had collected on the floor by a desk that sat against the far wall. The desk wasn’t real; it’d been put together with cement blocks and plywood.
Unlike the pocket door in my room, the door in this room had a regular knob, but the keyhole was on this side of the wall. I wrapped my bleeding hand around the knob and tried to turn it, but it didn’t budge.
I searched the room, looking for a heating vent. Aside from one that ran along the baseboard, similar to the one in my room, I couldn’t find any traces of ductwork—not along the walls or on the floor. I gazed up at the ceiling, right above the pile of insulation, confident a duct was hidden beneath the tiles, that the insulation had fallen during Mason’s frequent visits.
I climbed up on the desk, imagining Mason having done the same. The plywood surface wobbled beneath my feet. I bent forward to keep from hitting my head and then pushed upward on one of the tiles. It lifted about eight inches. In that space, I saw more insulation—fistfuls of it, like cotton candy.
I reached my hand inside, feeling for a steel opening or grate. A cool draft filtered over my fingers. I strained my arm to reach a little farther, just as the end of the plank shot up, plunging me forward. By quick reflexes, I managed to step back, anchoring the plank down, avoiding the fall.
My heart pounding, I continued to look into the space, beyond the insulation, but it was too dark. I’d need to remove all of the tiles if I wanted to find the vent.
I jumped back down, thinking I could use the loose board from the desk to strip the ceiling or even break one of the lights. How could broken glass help me? Aside from providing another weapon … Did I really need more than my coil spring?
Where even was my spring? Why didn’t I have it? I slipped back into my room to retrieve it, reminding myself of the ticking clock. The guy who took me would be returning soon. My last meal had been hours before.
I racked my brain. What could I use to pick the lock? I tried the tip of the spring, but it was far too big. My sweatshirt zipper was too mangled and wide. I needed something thinner, longer …
Imagining myself as the main character in the Survivalist series, I picked through the bathroom cabinet, checking out packaging construction. Could I take something apart? I tried pulling at the door, getting the hinges to break free, but each hinge had been secured with eight brass screws.
I looked upward. The eyeball lights glared down at me, producing tiny black dots that danced in front of my eyes. The lights in the other room—without the cages—were sure to have wir
es. Could I use those wires to construct a key?
I hurried back through the wall and lifted the plank from the desk, revealing the cement blocks underneath. And that’s when the idea hit: a solution far better than stripping the ceiling tiles or constructing a wire key.
I retied the T-shirt around my cut, using my teeth once again to secure the fabric. Then I picked up a block, grateful for all of my strength training. It had to have been at least twenty-five pounds.
Using both hands, I carried the block over to the door. The muscles in my forearms quivered as I hoisted it to my chest. In one quick motion, I brought the block down on the knob. It barely hit the edge of the metal before falling to the floor with a loud, hard crack.
I jumped back to avoid getting hit, then held my breath and listened for footsteps, the sound of him coming, the vibration of my world ending. But luckily, it remained absolutely quiet.
I picked up the block again, visually calculating the number of steps I’d need to take—three long strides—to gain enough momentum to smash the block down on the knob.
I inhaled a full breath and lifted the block high above my head. My biceps quivered. The wound on my arm continued to pulsate. But I was able to hit the knob at just the right angle.
There was a deep clank. The knob clamored to the floor.
And the door creaked open.
NOW
44
I startle awake. And click on my flashlight. I’m in my closet, not lying in a bed with a torn-up mattress, not clutching a coil spring.
Not surrounded by four white walls.
It was just a nightmare, but still I can feel it: the sensation of stiff, cold sheets against my bare legs, plus warm, soft skin sliding over my knee.
I can still picture it too: honeycomb candles burning in the shape of a heart, under a ceiling of pink snow, while a tiger-striped spider wove a web of silk all around the bed like a princess canopy.
I also saw drooping bedroom eyelids.
And tasted hot sticky-bun kisses.
And felt someone’s fingers on my back, kneading down my spine, encircling my waist, as hot, tingly kisses grazed my neck. Was that a finger on my chest, drawing pinwheels on my skin?
Sitting in my closet, not lying in a bed with a torn-up mattress, I remind myself this was just a dream. Don’t take it too seriously. There is absolutely no reason for this sudden rush of panic, especially because there were other images in my dream too—of Jack’s hand, sliding out through the hole in the wall, with his palm facing upward. He was wearing his braided leather bracelet. I recognized his olive jacket and his long, wiry fingers. In my dream, I placed my hand in his, and he held me tight—all through the kisses.
And the kneading.
And the encircling of my waist.
And the stiff cold sheets against my bare legs.
“It’ll all be over soon,” he promised.
But I’m still waiting, trying to breathe at a normal rate and convince myself I’m free. It was just a dream, I remind myself. Don’t take it too seriously.
There is absolutely.
No reason.
For this sudden.
Rush.
Of panic.
NOW
45
I get up and change into fresh clothes. Downstairs, I pull on a coat, unable to stifle this chill.
Mom looks up from her mug when she sees me. Her eyes stop at the coat: a black puffer jacket. “It’s going to be a hot one today.”
“I’m going to the shelter,” I say as though that explains the Thermo-Fill in summer.
“Would you like me to drive you?”
“Thanks, but I’d rather walk. I need some fresh air.” More important, I need to get away.
“How about breakfast? I bought blueberry muffins.”
“Angie usually gets doughnuts.” A lie.
“Okay, well, maybe we can go to lunch when you get back.” She reaches for a plate. It clanks against the granite—like fingernails on chalk. Like dishes in a hallway, stacked up behind a cat door.
I think I say goodbye. Maybe I shut the door behind me. I count twenty-two steps twenty-two times, purposely ending at the shelter to keep good on my word.
Angie beams when she sees me. “I knew you couldn’t resist the challenge of a damsel dog in distress. Isn’t that right, my resident dog whisperer?”
I want to see Lemon. I head for the cat lounge. Lemon sits in the center of the room, facing the door, as though she’s been waiting for me all morning.
I scoop her up, wondering how long she waited while I was away. How many days, weeks, or months did she sit in the same spot until it no longer made sense? I take her in the rocker and cradle her like Mom did with my Pammy doll.
Lemon purrs in the crook of my neck. The warm weight of her body against my chest makes me feel a little less broken. I stay here, in this moment, the same way I stay in the shower, craving the space between days.
But soon, Angie makes herself known, passing by the doorway a handful of times. I have to get up.
Her dog project barks as soon as she sees me. I reach into my pocket for a handful of treats and toss them inside the cage. While the dog sniffs around, gobbling them up, I brush myself against the bars, spreading my scent the way Mason spread his. On so many nights, I’d sit by the hole, sniffing my hands, breathing in the lingering scent of his skin, like lavender soap.
After the dog finishes her last treat, she looks at me for more. I sit in front of her cage and pull a toy from my pocket—a rope that’s been tied into a loop, with a hard rubber ball on one end, about the size of a tennis ball. I feed it through the bars. The dog gloms onto the ball, sinks her teeth right in, growling, seething, and foaming at the mouth.
I tug on the rope, using both hands, getting the dog to slide toward me, across the floor. It pulls right back, yanking my arm forward. I release my grip to let the dog win. She spits the toy out and backs away, still wanting to play, still eager to fight back.
I snatch the toy and continue our tug-of-war game, finally deciding on a name. I’m going to call the dog Brave, and each time I say it will be a reminder to myself for how I aspire to be.
THEN
46
The hallway was nothing like I imagined—not nearly as long or wide. A smoke detector on the ceiling blinked bright neon green. There were also two tiny night-lights plugged into the wall—Mickey Mouse and Daffy Duck—as though for a child’s room.
I kept the door open, taking advantage of the added light, then moved down the hallway, spotting crayon marks on the wall—faded blue and green words, done in a child’s hand:
I AM SORRY.
PLEEZ FORGIVE ME!!!!
I WILL BE A GOOD BOY.
PLEEZ LET ME OUT!!!
Crayon stick figures played across the wall: soccer, Frisbee, card games, and basketball.
Were children being kept here as well? Was it a child who wrote on the tile in my bathroom? Had he or she escaped the room? And, if so, where were they now? Did I even want to know?
I moved down the hallway, trying my best to keep quiet, even though just moments before, I’d been feeling so brave, making as much noise as I’d wanted.
I passed by a couple of rooms; the doors were closed. I imagined house equipment inside them—a furnace, a water tank, a breaker panel. I counted ten steps until I reached the door—ten steps, nowhere near twenty-two. Had he paced the hall each time he’d brought me food? Did he want me to believe the hallway was longer than it actually was?
I wrapped my hand around the knob and tried to give it a turn, knowing what would happen. Still, my stomach sank when the knob didn’t budge. I pressed my forehead against the door, able to hear the jostling of keys, the click of a lock, the clobbering of footsteps, and the clanking of food trays: ghostly sounds, haunting me, echoing inside my brain, playing with my mind.
I moved back to the room to grab the cement block, dropping the coil spring in the process; it rolled across the floor. I scurried to pic
k it up, poking it into the hem of my sweatpants. The block secured in my hands, I hurried down the hall, charging at the door, my teeth clenched, my forearms trembling.
I rammed the knob with the block, anticipating the break. A loud clank sounded as stone met metal. The block came crashing to the floor, landing on my foot—the toe of my boot. I let out a catlike whine.
My foot seared. The toe throbbed.
The knob was still in place.
I picked up the block again, held it at my chest, and took a couple of steps back; a burning sensation radiated up to my ankle. Lifting the block high above my head, I came down on the knob with the force of a wrecking ball. The knob gave way but stayed in its socket, angled downward. I repeated the motion two more times.
Finally, it worked.
The knob clamored to the floor.
But still the door remained closed.
Why wasn’t it opening?
There was just a hole where the knob should be, with a metal bar running across the space inside the wood. I needed to break it open.
My arms quivering, I slammed the block against the hole. No go. I tried again.
A cracking sound.
The door busted open.
I hobbled through it, searching for Mason. Where was the tunnel he’d spoken about? His room would be a few doors down, on the other side of it.
A set of stairs faced me. Was the door hidden in the wall, to the side of the steps? I raked my hand all over the wall panels, searching for a seam or crack. “Mason?” I called, trying to keep my voice low.
I took the stairs, hoping to find some other way to him. Another door faced me at the top. I went to twist the knob, suspecting it wouldn’t turn, but it did, and I scurried through, shutting the door behind me.
It was different up here on the second floor—blond wood floors, off-white walls. I took another step. A kitchen stood to my left. A living room was at the right. I peeked behind me. Doors lined the hallway on both sides.
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