She didn’t respond by word or deed. I watched her profile in the darkness.

“You are a fool,” I announced. “The longer you stay in here, the more afraid you’ll be.”

Suddenly, the grate opened above us. I jumped. Only five minutes had passed. I squinted up into the opening.

Jones’ voice called down. “Do you need more?”

“No more!” I shouted. Only, something about this dream world was wrong. Jones couldn’t hear me. She waited a few seconds.

Desperate, I turned to the little girl. “You have to answer,” I said, ignoring her distress. The little moons on her arms had begun to drip blood. Her mouth moved unintelligibly. Five minutes had passed for me and yet, for her, in the Pit, it had been a day.

The grate groaned shut above us.

“You can’t do this!” I shouted at my younger self. “Do you have any idea what she’ll turn you into?” The drooling, the mewling. I put my mouth to her ear and screamed aggressively, “Do you hear me?”

She didn’t. She mouthed her silent words and trembled, but she did not hear.

Five minutes passed. The grate opened.

I tensed, expecting to hear Jones’ question. Instead, her thick hand groped down into the darkness, searching for a grip. It was day ten, I realized. She was here to pull me out of the Pit and teach me my lesson by the window.

“Oh no, you’re out of time.” My voice shook with fear for her—for us. “She’ll beat you like nothing for this. More ’cause you’ve made her wait.”

Jones’ hand gripped her arm—my arm. No time to spare. The girl I’d been was stubborn. I had to convince her, right now! “Listen to me, fall down with the first blow, okay? And don’t scream. It makes her mad. Don’t plead. Roll over and grovel. Play dumb. She likes that. Whatever you do, stay far back from her feet. She kicks like a donkey. Oh, and drool and roll your eyes! And never forget—she likes to see the marks. So turn your face up, okay? Can you hear me?”

The grate closed over my head and I was alone.

* * *

I visited the dream Pit nightly for months. Each time I awoke with the grind of the grate in my ears. Shameful visions would plague me as I dressed for class: her—myself—as I’d been by that cracked window, mewling and drooling.

I’d see myself up close, mouthing as the blows fell. From above, twisting in agony. And I hated her—myself—more each day. I’d picture her face and work to be better than her, spurring myself on with shame. Study in the morning, study at night, study at noon. Escape the Pit.