Waking up was hard. I was in that uncomfortable place where you sort of know you aren't in the real world but can't pull yourself out of wherever you are. I wanted to open my eyes, but they were weighed down. And when my brain told my arm or leg to move, the arm or leg just wouldn't do it. I was trapped in my own sleepy body. Then, I began to think of my bizarre therapy session—the one where the darkness held something more than shadow and the sound of a fan chopped through the silence. I didn't want to be back there. I didn't want to remember any more of that. Not now, when everything swam in gloom and I could hardly move my body . . .

My eyes popped open. At last! I could see again. I could also feel again, though, and my stomach suddenly flushed with nausea. On instinct, I leaned over the side of the cot I was lying on and, thankfully, found a basin there to catch my vomit. It took only a moment. There wasn't much in my stomach. I hadn't thrown up since I'd first awoken, and yet it seemed to me that all I'd felt in this place were anxiety and nausea. I ached all over and started to shake. Like my stomach had caved in.

When I sat back up, I looked at where I was. A tiny room with white walls, a white floor, and the white cot on which I sat. A clean sweatsuit. A slit-for-a-window way up high, near the ceiling. A toilet and sink and shower-head in the corner opposite my cot, with a short wall around two sides of them that came up about five feet, I guess for a small piece of privacy. And at the end of the room was a door. There was a plate of glass down the top-middle of it and no door-handle; it opened from the outside.

That was it. Nothing else. Not even a desk or a chair or an extra blanket. And, I noticed, not even a security camera. I scrutinized the room more closely, then, because I was certain that they'd have to have a security camera in there. Oliphant was full of them. Wherever I was, I was sure I was being watched. But however much I looked, there really didn't appear to be a camera anywhere. That gave me a little thrill of excitement, though I don't know why. I guess when you've been stuck somewhere awful for a month, you get excited about meaningless things. It wasn't like I could do anything worth worrying about in that room by myself; it was just the idea that there wasn't some human on the other end of somewhere viewing my every move. Or if there were, I couldn't see the device that would allow him to.

My heart jumped as the door opened. It wasn't like the door in my other room that clunked and whirred with mechanics before sliding over. This one was quiet. It sort of whooshed aside, so I didn't even know it was open until someone stepped into the room. It wasn't Ms. Benjamin. It was a coated woman I didn't recognize. She didn't even look at me when she came into the room. Just bent down, picked up the basin I'd emptied my stomach into, and left, closing the door again as she went.

I watched her come and go, no fight in me, nothing but a slow-blooming misery. I knew where I was, then. Just the way things looked and the coldness of it all--I was in high security.

For some reason, I wasn't as upset as perhaps I should have been. I'd be alone. Away from Jason and Roxie (whatever had happened to her). Away from those terrible classes. I didn't need anyone around me; I didn't need anyone or anything. It might actually be nice to be alone for awhile. I tried telling myself that, ignoring the imminent arrival of the most intense boredom I could ever know.

I also wasn't as shocked as maybe I should have been. Not like when I'd woken up in the beginning, Tobias staring down at me. Why should I be surprised? I was being punished at Oliphant for something I couldn't remember. Nobody would tell me why I was there or even who I was. It wasn't as if I could expect them to tell me why I'd been transferred to high security. Clearly, somebody else was running my life for me—making the calls about where I should go. There was no why. It didn't have to make sense. I was just being kicked around.

I wished that thought bothered me more—maybe it should have. But I guess since I couldn't remember whatever life I'd had before Oliphant, I didn't know what to miss. Had I been free before? Or had I always had someone else making my decisions? It didn't matter, now.

There wasn't a clock in my room. I couldn't tell the time. I knew only by the sky outside that it was night, and I fell asleep without really wanting to. Luckily, I didn't dream anything. I should've had a lot on my mind, but I didn't. It was as if my head were in a constant state of emptying itself. And I still felt that way the following morning. I didn't wake up and say, Oh no! I forgot I was in here! I just kind of sighed and laid in my bed, doing absolutely nothing. Waiting. Waiting for someone or something—I didn't exactly know. Would someone come and talk to me? Did they feed people in high security? Although I'd felt like a criminal since I'd been at Oliphant, I didn't know true imprisonment until I was in high security.

Eventually, a tile in the floor slid sideways, and up came a tray of food. It was a strange way to receive my meals; was I to have no human interaction whatsoever? I quickly learned the answer to that question. For three days, my only highlight was waiting for that floor tile to slide over and bring up my food. I wasn't even hungry, rarely wanted to eat, but found myself compelled to choke down the meals just to overcome my boredom. When I was done with my food, I'd put the dishes back on the tile, and it would be taken away. Other than the meals, I had nothing at all to do but stew in my own thoughts.

I was lonely, but I couldn't exactly say I missed any of my roommates. What really bothered me most was not knowing what had happened to Roxie—whether she'd escaped or not. I knew that I might never find out, however. I saw no one except for the woman who had come in to take my vomit bucket away. I had no idea how long I'd be there. For all I knew, I could be stuck in high security for the rest of my life. Deep down, I couldn't imagine that being true . . . who would do such a thing to me? But the fear of it nagged me the longer I was in there, and there was nothing I could do about it. If I yelled and screamed, no one would come. If I tried to escape . . . well, the room was an impermeable box. There was no way I could get out of it. The solitary window was high up and barred and far too narrow to fit through.

When the fourth day came, I thought a little about messing with the tile, and I waited impatiently for it to open and reveal my meals. When it did, though, and I got a closer look at it, I realized there was little to be done, there. It was as if the tray were placed on a slab, and that slab rose to fit perfectly into the rectangle where the tile slid aside. There was no room around it to try to stick my fingers and pull, and besides, even if there had been, and if I'd been able to somehow move the slab, that space, just like the window, was far too narrow for me to fit through.

Day five arrived. I knew the number of days only because of the darkness I could see out the window when night arrived and the fact that lights went off and then back on again to indicate when I should sleep. But something different happened that morning. When my breakfast came up and I unfolded my napkin, there was a message scrawled inside it. The note said,

I've been looking for you. Write back. Henry.

My heart seemed to skip a beat. Was this the Henry that the others had talked about? The one who'd tried to help people escape? Maybe he knew what had happened to Roxie! It didn't even occur to me to wonder how he'd written on the back of my napkin until I tried to figure out how I could write him back. I didn't have a pen, and I didn't have any other paper besides the napkin (which was already written on). So, before I gave my tray back, I did my best to eat the food and then tore the message out of the napkin. I folded it up and placed it under the mattress in my cot. He'd have to wait until the next meal.

Dinner came. It consisted of some type of meat covered in some kind of sauce, and as unappetizing as it looked, I was grateful. Picking up one of my tennis shoes (which I didn't wear because . . . why would I?), I dipped the plastic aglet in the dark sauce and painstakingly wrote on my napkin,

What about my roommate?

I debated writing the name I knew and ended up including it: Nadia. Then I blew on that gravy until I was mostly certain it'd dried, refolded it gently in the hope that the gravy wouldn't stick, and replaced it on my tray. I had no idea if the thing was even going to get to him. He couldn't possibly be on the other end of the floor tile; he couldn't be the one in charge of food trays. Still, how else could he have expected me to write back? This was the way he'd done it. He hadn't given me any other instructions. So I just assumed that this was the way I'd have to do it.

When I sent my tray back down, anticipation overruled my reason. If this was the Henry that people talked about, maybe he could help me get out of this place (nevermind that apparently he hadn't actually helped anyone, as my roomates had implied they'd all been caught). It wasn't my hope of escape alone that sparked my interest, though: I'd been wanting to know more about this boy since I'd heard that man threatening rectangle head over him. Henry was a no name too, I recalled. There was possibly some connection between us. What if he could help me with my memories? Whatever he could or couldn't do, I didn't sleep well that night. I was waiting for another message.

And I got one. The next morning, another note was on my tray. This time, it read, simply, Can you swim? Henry.

He hadn't even bothered to answer my question about Roxie. He seemed impatient. This second note scared me a little, though--it was going too quickly. I'd thought maybe, if this worked, we could have some secret little conversations back and forth, to make things interesting, to get to know each other. And now he was asking me if I could swim? Why would he need to know, unless he intended for us to go swimming? Of course, that sounded ridiculous, impossible. I couldn't remember if I knew how to swim, anyway, or whether I'd ever even been in a body of water. If Henry were like me, nameless, memory-less, could he remember? In any case, I didn't want to say no, if only because I found the prospect of him and this mystery built around him intriguing, and I didn't want to give him a reason to stop writing to me. I hadn't really cared what Tobias and Jason and Roxie thought of me, but I felt different about Henry. I understood, suddenly, why anyone would throw caution aside and do whatever Henry suggested--why Roxie had done it. It was the absolute dullness that pervaded Oliphant—Henry was a glimmer of adventure, of intrigue, in the desert of boredom that was that place.

So there was no chance I'd tell Henry I didn't know if I could swim. The next note that went down told him that of course I could swim! and then it asked him why it mattered.

I had so many more questions for him, but I had no room on the napkin and even less to write with (it'd been chocolate sauce tonight--a rare treat). I wanted to know where we were from and if he could remember anything, how he could get notes to me and why he was always trying to help people out if he couldn't escape himself. And more . . . including, long after I'd sent my second reply, whether Henry might not exist at all--whether he was actually someone working for Oliphant who tricked people in order to catch them and keep them in longer. But I did my best to force that thought out of mind, especially seeing as it didn't matter anyhow, at this point. I had no way to get answers to any of my questions until something more happened. And besides, what would they do to me, anyway, if I did get caught trying to get out? Put me in even more solitary confinement? Keep me here longer? Fine. I didn't know where I'd go if and when I left, anyhow.

I waited eagerly for the breakfast tray the following morning. It struck me that the few days I'd spent in high security had been far more interesting than the weeks I'd spent in my room with the others. I was supposed to be more miserable. What else was the point of such isolation if it wasn't harsher punishment?

Lying on the uncomfortable flat cushion they'd turned into a bed, I thought about who this Henry was. As I stared at the ceiling, I thought of his name and the way I felt thinking it, saying it, as if he were someone I already knew and yet feared. If he were real, and if what the others had said about him was true, he was a danger. He must have some sort of power to be able to mess with the other people in Oliphant, but that was what was so odd--if he were dangerous, why wouldn't he be under the tightest security they had? Why wouldn't he have cameras on him every second? If Oliphant really wanted to keep him from doing what he was doing, they'd find a way to do it. Either he had some sort of magical powers, or they were allowing him to get away with his plots, whether on purpose or through neglect.

The tile slid aside with its little scraping noise, and I anxiously watched the tray rise. It held a glass of orange juice and a bowl of oatmeal that looked cold. Even if I hadn't been awaiting a secret note, I wouldn't have eaten that food, and I went immediately for the napkin, but even before I picked it up, I could see that there weren't any words on it. Even so, I unfolded the paper square.

Nothing. It was blank.

My heart sank. I hadn't realized just how much I'd been anticipating another message until one didn't come. I told myself not to worry. Lunch and dinner were still ahead. Maybe Henry had slept in.

The day didn't bring any more notes from him, though. By the end of it, I was crushed. And I mean that, too. Because there had been absolutely nothing to look forward to in the life I was living at Oliphant, and this one thing had given me a boost of some kind. Going to bed was hard. I was too agitated to sleep. Maybe tomorrow, I thought. That's what I tried to think the next day, and the next, and the next, but by the time five more days had passed, I was pretty sure he wasn't writing back. I hadn't even known I had hope until those notes stopped coming. I'd never felt worse.

The isolation began to take real effect on me. At first, being by myself had been kind of nice. No loud, obnoxious, volatile Roxies. No weird looks from Jason. I didn't have to go to class and see Dr. Scarpoli, and I definitely didn't have therapy sessions. It was a break, those original few days. But as those days dragged, I began to understand the torture of being by myself. Time passed strangely when I was all alone for so long. It was like it didn't exist. I knew it moved only by the regularity of my meals and the sky darkening. By about the eleventh day, I started to hate the sound of that tile moving over. The little beeps that meant food was coming. I hated it because it reminded me that there were days, and mine were being wasted because I was sitting in a cell. I hadn't thought it would get to me the way it did. But after the notes stopped, I felt like everything was gone.

I actually started to wish I had someone to miss. Like parents, or friends. I wondered more than ever what sort of life I'd had before Oliphant. Memories would've given my mind something to be occupied with during the long periods of nothing. The only things I could really think about were the roommates I'd left behind and the small shred of fear that had awakened in me during my last therapy session. I knew that somewhere very nearby there were a ton of people my age, going to school and laughing with friends and at least being able to breathe outdoor air. I laid on my bed most of the time and envied them, those imaginary people, going about doing things while I sat without any promise of ever knowing anything but this. And I stopped eating altogether. I just wasn't hungry. My appetite was totally gone, not that I'd had one much to begin with.

I saw the third note only because I wanted to drink the water on my lunch tray. The salad and sandwich didn't interest me. When I glanced at the napkin, though, I saw the same markered letters bleeding through the white tissue, and my heart started beating again. It was like I'd been dead for the two weeks or so that I'd been completely isolated. That bleeding marker brought me to life again.

My fingers shook when I unfolded it. What could it possibly say? Why had it been so long in coming? I could hardly remember the last thing I'd written to him, so I didn't know what to expect.

When the door opens, go left. Down. Back of the basement. Water tank. Henry.

I had to reread it three times. Did he actually mean what I thought he meant? This was an escape plan. For a minute, I wondered if that was what he wrote to everyone he tried to help escape. Then I remembered that Roxie had been outside, so it couldn't possibly be the same note. I also couldn't help wanting to know if I'd be alone in this. Roxie had been alone. And what about everyone else Henry had supposedly tried to help? Had he actually been there with any of them? I couldn't say; I didn't know. But something told me he just did the notes, and then they were on their own. According to the others, nobody ever actually got away. What was Henry doing, then? If he didn't try to get out too, why would he even bother just sending the notes to random people? Maybe he was just playing around. Maybe he liked to get their hopes up and then see them get caught again.

Even though my head was awash with negative thoughts, I never considered not trying to get out. I mean, what other choice did I have? They couldn't do much worse than throw me back in high security. I had no reason to stay. For all I knew, they could be planning on keeping me at Oliphant for life. Nobody had told me how long my sentence was. I really had nothing to lose, even if Henry's note was a hoax and I'd be all alone.

And then . . . what if it was for real? What if I really could get out, could meet Henry? Because I wanted to. I knew that I wanted to--had to--meet him.

I didn't write back. There was no point. My questions couldn't be asked or answered on a tiny square of napkin. Like the other notes, I folded this one up and put it under my cot mattress. Then I left my food alone and went to lie back down. I had to wait. That was all I could do, now. Nothing different than it had been for the past several days—except that I had hope again, and something to wait for. When the door opens . . . What did he mean? My room door? It hadn't been opened since the woman had removed the bucket. Why would it be opened now? I tried not to think about it too much. There was no possibility of making sense out of things.

The breakfast tray went down. The lunch came up. The lunch went down. The dinner came up. By the time the sky began to darken and the last of my meal trays disappeared into the floor, I was starting to feel a slight glimmer of disappointment. For all I knew, the door could be opening in two weeks. Henry hadn't said it was today that it would happen. But just as I was starting to drift into sleep, a very soft sound popped my eyes open. It was dim in my room; the lights had been put out a while ago. What I heard, though, was a quiet sliding sound, like a cardboard box being pushed across my tiled floor. Sitting up, my heart practically beat right up into my throat when I saw that the door to my room had moved aside. A dark rectangle now opened out into the hallway.

I had to move fast. There was no saying how long it would be open. Grabbing my shoes, I hurried toward the door, traveling barefoot so as not to make noise. There was no telling what I was going to find on the other side of that room.