“Everything that’s outside the house,” she says.

“Like what?” I ask.

“All the trees and the grass and the sky and the air. All the animals. All of it. I can’t ever leave. Except with the mask and only if it’s an emergency.”

She says this without emotion. She says this without longing because she doesn’t know any other way of life. She must have been living this way since she’s had memories.

I make some mental notes and pretend that they are important so that I don’t jump out of my skin playing with dolls when I want to run.

First, she has been here since age four or perhaps even earlier. She has no memory of any other life.

Second, she never calls the man by a name. She uses only the pronouns he, him, his.

Third, he has lied to her to keep her here. If she had such severe allergies, the dust in this house would have killed her by now.

Fourth, this man who won’t say his name is angry and impulsive. I picture him slamming on his brakes, causing a car to crash into him. He may also be violent.

“Suzannah!” Alice yells.

I am pulled back into the moment where I am playing with dolls.

I hold mine up. “Yes, Hannah?” I say in a different voice than my own.

Now Alice throws hers down. “She doesn’t talk like that!”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “How does she talk? I will try to be just like her.”

Alice calms and picks up her doll. “Just normal. In your regular voice.”

“Okay,” I say. “What, Hannah?” I try again.

Her face lights up. It’s night and day. Dark and light. The emotions that flow through this child.

We talk then, Hannah and Suzannah. We talk about childish things. We talk about our pets. Suzannah has a little puppy named Oscar and Hannah has a cat named Whiskers. At every turn, I am redirected with my answers. This is a game Alice plays the same way each time, and I imagine before today, she played both parts. Hannah and Suzannah.

When she tires of the game, I begin again with my inquiries.

“Who else gets to play Suzannah?” I ask. “Your father?”

She turns away in a huff.

I’ve hit a nerve so I push harder. “Your mother?”

“Stop asking dumb questions!” she says.

She walks to the wall of shelves and pulls out a board game. Candyland. It’s old, the box broken and taped back together.

She doesn’t say a word as she sets it up on the floor.

We draw cards. We take turns. I wait. And then I resume.

“Well,” I say. “I sure am glad you found me last night. I haven’t gotten to play Candyland in years. Not since my children were younger.”