Panicking, Abbey tried to slide the keys towards herself. She managed to get them into her sweaty fingers, but she couldn’t get the slippery key into the lock behind her back.

Shannon sat up, red-faced and dripping. His eyes focused on her, and lit up with a terrifying rage.

Abbey got the key into the lock, but it was too late. He punched her in the head. Sparks filled her skull. He hit her over and over until her ears rang. It was like the sky was falling. She couldn’t even raise her arms to protect herself—when she tried, something tore inside her shoulder and the cuffs bit into her wrists until she bled.

So she went somewhere else. A woman named Abbey Chapman was being beaten to death, but she was no longer that woman. She knew things about the lives of many people—her mom, her brother, the president, Beyoncé and Shannon Luxford. How could she be sure she wasn’t one of them?

When she came back into her body, Shannon was gone. The lights were out. Abbey was still cuffed to the bed, in a puddle of piss and blood.

This was the longest blackout yet, or maybe it just felt that way. Bruises swelled under her hair. Her eyes dried out and her tongue shrivelled. The room grew colder and colder. Maybe it was winter now, or maybe Shannon had turned up the air-conditioning to freeze her to death. Or maybe she had a fever.

She passed in and out of consciousness. Her dreams bled into reality. Sometimes she thought she was back in the Ohio Caverns, looking for her brother. Sometimes she knew where she was, but thought her mom was standing beside her bed, asking why she wasn’t getting up. She tried to tell Mom about the handcuffs, but her throat was too dry and her lips too crumbly to make words. Eventually Mom gave up and went away. Abbey wept.

In a lucid moment, she decided Shannon was never coming back. She was going to die here. She was sure it had already been longer than three days without water. Maybe she was already dead. She was a ghost. Soon she would meet her replacement.

Then the lights came back on.

Shannon came into the panic room, and unlocked the plexiglass door. He left it open for ventilation as he mopped the floor of her cell. He worked silently and carefully, like one of the queen’s butlers. She was too weak even to speak. He was clean-shaven, with slicked-back hair and clothes that smelled of fabric softener. She was a pale, shivering husk, legs stained with her own shit. She was too ashamed even to look at him.

He bent down and uncuffed her.

She felt a rush of gratitude for this handsome man who was saving her life.