Rigged to the bike was a wind-up flashlight, which was her best light source. It charged with each ride. She tried to conserve the light to times she needed it most.

At intervals, from a basket attached to a rope, the monster would lower sandwiches, apples, granola bars and bottled water. Other times, he’d send a bucket of soapy water to her, or a basket with toothpaste, a toothbrush, fresh clothes, ill-fitting sweatpants, socks, T-shirts, a hoodie. Using the same basket, the monster would take up her waste and soiled clothes.

It must be how I lost my mom’s bracelet. It was in the pocket of my jeans when the creep put me down here, but I can’t find it.

The monster also provided light sticks—red, green, blue, or yellow. Sam would bend the plastic tube, breaking the vial inside before shaking it. The result was a glowing light source that would last several hours before dying. She’d tossed the weakened tubes to the far side. They looked like a heap of dying Christmas lights.

But now, the monster used the basket less frequently, often just dropping things down the shaft. She worried that another phase of her captivity was approaching.

At times, Sam almost welcomed it, for the alterations to her dungeon did little to stop every kind of bug from crawling over it—and her. She often woke to the tickle of a spider or centipede wriggling down her shirt, over her skin, near her ear, across her face. Sometimes she saw rats, mice, or snakes where the edge of the tarp failed to cover the ground. Sam had to rise above her repulsion when vermin or reptiles got near, and kill them with rocks. She then used the edge of a plywood sheet to shove the remains as far away as possible, and bury them under rocks.

I will not let this be my tomb.

Sam tried talking to the monster, begging to be let go, promising never to tell. Her pleas were answered with silence.

She was alone with her fears.

She had no clock, no phone, no radio, no books.

Nothing.

One hour bled into the next, then the next.

She had no sense of night and day; her body clock was haywire.

To keep from losing her mind, she’d travel back in time to slowly relive memories of her mother, her father, and then Kevin, walking with him through Central Park. Again, she thought of Kevin, her Aunt Lori and Uncle Mac in Toronto, her friend Monique in Montreal.

They must be worried to death—or think I’m dead!

Tears came.

Again, she blamed herself for helping the stinky man. He had to be the—

Sam froze.

Caught her breath.

What’s that?

Sam heard very quiet clicks.

Tiny.

What is that? It’s coming from the rock pile.

Then nothing.