“So I went to the basement. Even though that’s not where the sound was coming from. I took the steps, calling out to them, sweating by now, thinking, over and over, They’re playing a game, they’re playing a game. Because that’s what I wanted, isn’t it? Didn’t I want to discover that, despite the sealed windows and doors, despite the plain food, the lack of light and exercise, despite the fact that Daddy was obviously scared, despite the perpetual darkness, didn’t I want to think my kids were having fun? When I got to the basement, I heard them laughing upstairs. So I went right back up. By now I was yelling. ‘Macy! Eric! This isn’t funny, dammit! You’re scaring Daddy!’ Then I heard them whispering. And I knew what this type of whispering meant. I guess you could call it conspiring, though usually when parents put it that way they’re trying to be funny about it. This wasn’t funny. I couldn’t find my own kids in the darkness of our own home and they’d gone from laughing to whispering. And I recognized the type of whispering, too. I’m sure you’ve experienced it with your own kids. The sound of little ones daring one another to do something. Something they hadn’t ever done before.

“So I ran. All through the house. Most of the furniture was out of the way because we’d set it up like that, because we lived in darkness. But I clipped my hip on the fireplace pretty bad and I bashed the side of my head against a wall. None of that mattered at the time except that it slowed me down. I got across the house again and heard them whispering behind me. So I turned and went back, and there it was again, the two of them, whispering behind me again. I was screaming by then. Howling their names, demanding they tell me where they were hiding and now. And they did tell me. But not with words. The next thing I heard was a dull…hitting sound. Sounded like it does when you drive a knife into a melon. I just…I…”

Malorie doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to express what she feels.