Time to test the dam. She grabbed a bottle of Sprite, poured some down. The liquid hissed its way down the tube, but the last two pages she’d dropped didn’t move. She poured a little more, missed the drain.

“Shit.”

Sprite splashed on the limestone floor. She expected a little bubble from a soda, but the liquid turned into foam instead. A chemical reaction.

“Are you kidding me?”

Troy Woods’s fifth-grade science fair project had taught her the basics. The carbolic acid in the soda caused the unsealed limestone to break down.

She poured the rest of the Sprite where the screws entered the stone. She had no idea how much soda it would take to loosen the screws but needed to fill the drain regardless. She emptied another two bottles then returned to tampons and books. She stopped for lunch, put one of the empty Sprite bottles in the metal drop, replaced the caps on the other two, and tucked them into her bed sheets.

After lunch, she risked another hour under the table. Overall, she squeezed one hundred pages, twenty tampons, three granola bars and their wrappers, and the bread from her sandwich down the drain before climbing into bed to await playroom time.

*   *   *

Hours later, the metal slot clanged open. Embower stood outside Caitlin’s window, handcuffs in hand. “Who’s hungry?”

Caitlin walked over. “What time is it?”

“Seven.”

She bagged herself, put her hands through the slot. They walked to the playroom, no discussion. She heard the door lock behind her, found the hole, put her hands through once more.

“You’re not eating with me tonight?”

No window in this door. She couldn’t see his reaction, but his hands stopped moving on the handcuffs. “Not tonight.”

The cuffs slipped off. She left her hands in the hole. “Embower? Can I have a clock?”

His answer came slow. “Why a clock?”

“It’s like Vegas in this place. My circadian rhythm’s gone crazy. Nothing big, maybe a little alarm clock.”

He squeezed her hands gently, then pushed them back through the door. “We’ll see.”

The metal slot slid shut.

She reached up and removed the bag.

A takeout container waited on the torture table next to a crisp copy of the latest Daily Student. Her own face stared at her from center page, above the crease. The headline—“Missing Reporter Found.”

He’d be watching—no doubt in her mind about that—but she couldn’t wait. She picked up the paper.

FROM MARY LUBBERS-GAFFNEY, DIRECTOR

In response to this publication’s weekend coverage, representatives from both the Bloomington Police Department and the FBI Indianapolis field office have confirmed that journalist Caitlin Bergman, believed to be missing, has been located.

Although the IDS works to ensure all stories adhere to the highest journalistic standards, this weekend’s coverage illustrated the danger of supposition and opinion in the digital age.