Jacob looks up at the black-painted window. He stops and listens but hears nothing outside the door. The window is just above eye level. He walks over to it and reaches up for the handle. There is a keyhole on it, and on top of that someone has drilled loops into the window and window frames and connected them with a padlock. He feels whatever small hope he had evaporate again. It’s not open: the lock is still sitting there.

But he’s wrong. As he pulls on the padlock, it opens. Someone has forgotten to lock it. Or unlocked it.

He turns around, towards the darkness of the basement. Next to the door he sees the contours of an old armchair. Impatiently, eagerly, he grabs hold of it and pulls it out into the weak light, towards the window and freedom. It’s heavy and makes a scraping sound as he drags it over the raw concrete. But he can’t worry about that now: he has to get out of here, has to be quick. Has to escape.

He thinks he hears something outside the door. Another door opening, a creaking. Are they heading back down the stairs again? For a moment he considers stopping what he’s doing, pushing back the chair, closing the window, throwing himself onto the mattress again and pretending to be bound.

But it’s now or never. This is his opportunity to get out of here alive.

He’s up on the chair now, looking out into an inner courtyard or an alley, just concrete and trash and trashcans.

He hears it clearly now. Someone is heading down the stairs, towards his cell, and the terror claws at him, as he stretches an arm out through the window. He feels the damp, cold stone in the courtyard against his hands, but can’t get a grip. He can’t go further, can’t get out. He just stands there, hanging in his cell, halfway out, still a prisoner.

His feet fumble, and he manages to get a foot onto the backrest of the chair, can hear it cracking, threatening to collapse beneath his weight. He continues to grope around the stones of the courtyard until he finally finds an edge to hang onto. Then he pulls himself out, first his upper body, then legs, then feet.

Suddenly he’s lying in the courtyard. In a cold breeze that makes the skin on his arms turn to gooseflesh. He wants to cheer and laugh. He’s free. But now he has to get away, keep moving.

He gets to his knees and lifts his eyes. There’s only one way out, and it seems to lead to a normal city street. He sees a small kiosk or convenience store on the other side of the street.

He can barely believe a normal world still exists out there, as he stands up and takes a step out towards the street.