I try to dig in my heels as he tows me down the Collar. People watch in astonishment. To my surprise, we pass his cabin, and he flings open the door into first class. Passing a short hallway, he pulls me down a narrow staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” I gasp, slipping off a step.

He yanks me back to my feet. “Oy, stuff it.”

Fear gnaws the last remnants of my composure, like rats to a melon rind. My nose has begun to run.

At the bottom of the stairs, we turn a corner down another hallway and then another. Windows stretch down the wall on the right, revealing a spacious high-ceilinged room with a floor drawn with lines. It’s a squash court.

But before I can get a good look, the Master-of-Big-Arms marches me down a second staircase. I’m beginning to lose track of where I am, but I guess somewhere on G-Deck. The light has become too dim for my comfort.

Finally, he unlocks a door to what looks like a small closet.

“Not ideal,” he mutters. “Not ideal a’tall.” He shoves me inside, so roughly that I spill onto the floor. The smell of wood and rubber rise up around me. “This will hold you till we figure out what to do with you.”

He slams the door. Keys jangle, followed by the click of the lock, which to me sounds like the cocking of a pistol.

A thread of panic unspools within me. The dark, my old enemy, sharpens its teeth.

“No, please don’t leave me here! Please turn on the light! I can explain!” I cry, my throat still aching and my mouth rinsed with acid. “Please don’t leave me.” I pound on the door, blubbering. “I beg you, turn on the light.”

The hall lights click off, one last insult, and darkness rushes in, as thick as the tide. Frantically, I grab at the walls, feeling for another switch. But I don’t find one. Why put a light switch in a closet?

I bang at the door. “Help! Somebody, help me!”

No one comes.

After several more minutes of yelling, my throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with a horsehair shoe brush, and my knuckles are raw from knocking. I let go of the doorknob and grope at what’s behind me. Perhaps there is something here I could use.

The Titanic dips. Losing my balance, I knock into something flat and metal—a shelf—and grab at it to steady myself. My hands collide with a pile of wooden objects—rackets—and a stack of something soft—towels.

I fall into a heap, and hard objects rain down on me. With a shriek, I cover my head with my hands. The objects make hollow sounds as they bounce off the floor.

Steady, girl, they are just balls.