She pulled the sheet. Another pink pajama top, this time with a word across the front: “Princess.” Further down, white cotton underwear she didn’t recognize.

She took a deep breath, pulled the fabric aside, and saw the end of an oversized sanitary napkin.

“Thank God,” she muttered, removing the mega-pad slowly. No damage done other than the monthly murder of cotton. Still, Branford had been between her legs without her knowledge, permission, or even the flash of a memory.

She tossed the pad on the floor.

Which was worse? Paige Lauffer on a soccer field or this hell?

She shook the thought away and took inventory of the rest of her life. Only one chair at the table, the one bolted to the floor facing the bed. From this angle, she saw bolts holding the table legs in place as well. On top, a small plastic caddy played centerpiece.

Beyond the table, she saw the fourth wall and the door for the first time. The door had a vertical window. Two flat metal discs filled the holes that would normally house locks or handles.

A closed, rectangular metal panel, similar to a post office parcel drop, sat to the left, halfway up the wall. Below the drop, a camping toilet, lid closed. A stack of four plastic milk crates split the difference between the wall drop and the door to the outside world. Each functioned as a shelf for plastic bottles of water and soft drinks, boxes of granola bars, tissue, and toilet paper. A stack of additional pajamas had been placed on the shelves to the right, all pink.

She lowered her bare feet to the floor. Her ripped ankle skin made her want to melt, but she forced herself to stand. She got one step before she slipped and fell toward the table. Worse than a banana peel, she’d slipped on her bloody maxi.

She inspected the caddy on the table. Tampons, sanitary napkins, gauze, Neosporin, extra strength Tylenol, wet wipes, more cotton underwear.

She worked her way around to the door, looked through the window’s thick glass, saw only a rough white stone wall. The same stone as her bedroom’s floor, and the same chalky stone she’d tried to throw in Troy Woods’s eyes to get away. Indiana limestone. Made sense: they’d driven down Tapp Road to get to Branford’s house. He’d built an underground lair in the remains of a quarry.

Caitlin hobbled over to the toilet. She pushed the pedal to flush, sat on the closed lid, and reached for the caddy. Two pills in the Tylenol bottle, no way to overdose. She grabbed a bottle of water, took the pills, loosely wrapped her wrists and ankles with Neosporin and gauze, then applied a tampon and slid on a fresh pair of underwear.