Amy looked up and gasped, then pressed herself to the wall, as far from the center of the room as possible. The stain on the ceiling had grown. It was a huge pregnant bulge, ripe with yellow water, dripping into a vast puddle in the center of the room. It looked like it was going to rupture at any moment. Runnels of dirty water chattered eagerly down the walls, into the bucket of Magic Tools, streaming over stacks of waterlogged Orsk catalogs, or what used to be Orsk catalogs. Now they were toppled and mixed with yellowing ledger paper filled with precise handwriting. The top sheet was dated May 5, 1839:

… in short, this commission found that the Cuyahoga Panopticon is nothing more than a mill for the manufacture of Lunatics. Many of the Penitents have lost their minds in the numbing grind of repetitive labor; others have given in to Despair and disfigured themselves. The Treadwheel has been disconnected from its grinding stone, Penitents who should be employed in gainful labor are sent to “The Crank” until they become too injured to continue—and there is no gainful industry to be observed. Warden Josiah Worth is not only aware of this situation; but seems to revel in it. Our recommendation is the Immediate Closure …

Amy dropped the paper. This information was nothing she didn’t already know. There was nothing left to see here, no one was coming; it was time to move on. She took one last glance around the room and noticed that the sign on the wall had changed. Its message used to be “The hard work makes Orsk your family, and the hard work is free.” But the running water had worn away many of the letters. Now, it simply read: “Work makes you free.”

She was nearly out the door when she heard whispering. Someone was close by, a mumbling scratching on her eardrums. She flicked the flashlight around, but she was alone. Then she pressed her ear to the wet wall and whispered, “Hello?”

The reply was so loud, she jumped back.

“… hide, hiding, can’t find me, can’t see me, keep going … ”

The voice was harsh and sibilant. Amy recognized it instantly. “Ruth Anne?”

Something thumped and rustled on the other side of the drywall. “Amy?”

She pressed her hands to the wall, her fingers clawing helplessly at the paint. “Ruth Anne,” she said. “I’m going to get you out of there.”

“No,” Ruth Anne whispered back. “They can’t see me in here.”

“Who can’t see you?”

“The Creepy Crawlies.”

“Did you get in through the closet?”

“I made a hiding place,” Ruth Anne said.

Something sharp scraped against the other side of the wall. It sounded like fingernails, and then Amy remembered the hole scratched in the closet wall and the dark fluid smeared around it.

“Are you hurt?” Amy asked.

“It hurt at first,” Ruth Anne said. “It hurt a lot. But now they can’t find me.”