I headed through the open door into shop class, the biggest of the rooms, filled with slumbering machines. It was creepy, the air thick with the scent of grease and sawdust. Half-finished projects lay on shelves to the side. Pig-shaped cutting boards, the hind legs still trapped in wood. An unsanded back scratcher. A model of a jalopy missing a roof and two wheels. They’d never be finished. They’d just lie there, incomplete, collecting dust. Heading for the windows, I passed between the belt sander and the band saw. That’s when I heard it.

The faintest clank.

Inside the room with me.

I froze, one boot inches above the dusty floor.

It came again. Clank-clank.

I bit my lip, lowered my weight. Was it one of the machines, shuddering with a dying jolt of electricity?

I leaned around the band saw. The vertical blade cut my view in half, but I could still make out a man hunched over the workbench across the room. Though his back was turned, I could see his hand to the side, hovering over various tools, deciding which one to grab. Wrench … Phillips head … clawhammer.

The hand closed around the clawhammer.

The man straightened up and started to turn, his legs swinging stiffly. I dropped behind the base of the band saw, my knees rising to touch my chin. I heard another clank and realized that the sound came from leg braces.

Dr. Chatterjee.

The footsteps neared. Clank-clank. Clank-clank.

I debated shouting for Patrick, but if there were other Hosts all around us, that would only alert them. I braced myself, hoping Chatterjee would change course. My baling hooks were at the ready, but I hadn’t killed anyone yet and prayed that I wouldn’t have to now. Sweat stung my eyes. My heartbeat came so loud I thought he might hear it.

Clank-clank. Clank-clank.

A worn loafer set down in view—clank—and I knew his next step would bring me into full sight. I set my feet and sprang.

But my boot skidded on a slick of sawdust, and I fell forward, dropping the baling hooks, my palms jarring the floor. I rolled over onto my back, arms raised over my face. Dr. Chatterjee stood nearly on top of me, the hammer swaying at his side.

With my wrists I jerked at the baling hooks’ nylon loops, trying to tug the handles into my palms. They bounced off my fingers. I couldn’t look away, not even as Dr. Chatterjee leaned over me. For an instant the faint light from outside hit his wire-rimmed eyeglasses at the perfect angle, turning the lenses to mirrored circles. I knew that once he moved another inch, the glint would vanish and I would see what lay beneath.

I steeled myself for those tunnels, two circular views through to the ceiling above, and I wondered if this would be the last thing I’d ever see.

Dr. Chatterjee looked down at me.