The skin of my good hand has gone pink and feels raw. He was right; nothing in the bathroom comes off. I grab the handle of the faucet, leverage myself back with both my feet on the wall, and I can't pull it off. The spout itself doesn't budge. I kick at the pipe under the sink, and all it does is make my toes sore. The shower head is encrusted with lime and doesn't move at all. Neither does the shower handle. There's no curtain rod. There's no mirror. There's no lid on the toilet tank. There's toilet paper, a toothbrush, and toothpaste, but none of those things will hurt him. I've screamed and screamed and screamed, but no one's come to help.

I make an animalistic noise at the back of my throat and sink against the mattress. My good hand is throbbing from the futile efforts, and my bad hand, I've left alone. I want it to heal as soon as possible so I can use it.

There's no windows in the basement. There's no loose nails in the staircase for me to stab him with. There's no chunks of concrete falling off the walls, no loose bits in the floor. Nothing hard on, in, or under the mattress.

I have no weapons. I don't know where this house is. I don't know who he is. I don't know what time it is.

I'm in hell.

I close my eyes and lean the back of my head against the wall. So many little things led to me being here, and if I could just go back, if I could just change any of those things.

If I rode my bike faster, Annie wouldn't have been in the parking lot yet when I passed by. If I rode slower, she would've already been gone. If Mom didn't take that extra shift, I would've gone home and stayed home to celebrate with her. If I went to the creek or to the bridge with Matt, I wouldn't have gone out later again.

My frustration builds with every passing second, and I'm about to scream when the door opens. The man walks down, taking his time on each noiseless step, but he pauses halfway down the staircase.

"What size are you?" he asks.

I blink. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't keep wearing the clothes you have on now. They'll get filthy. You need other things to change into. So, what size are you? Shirts, pants, and shoes?"

My good hand clenches, and I hide it behind my back. No way am I going to be here long enough for him to get me a freaking wardrobe.

But if I don't answer, he might come and find out himself.

"Medium for boys," I say tightly. "I don't know about shoes."

"Well, take one off and look."

"The number's faded."

He raises an eyebrow. "If the number under your shoe has faded, then it's got no traction. That's not safe. Is there a number on the inside, where your foot goes?"

"That's faded, too."

He shakes his head disapprovingly. "Foot health is important. You can't wear old shoes, they don't give you any support." He sighs. "I'll make a guess. Thank you. Breakfast will be down soon."

He leaves, and I hear the click again.