I want Oliver to ask about the footstool. I picture Michael at the top of the steps, his eyes bright with his hand outstretched, saying, “It’s about trust,” as the pledges look at one another. No one wanting to hand their escape route back to him. Any one of them could have done the same as me; the buckets were tall enough. But I imagine that was part of it—the additional way out even after the footstool disappeared. But if you take it, climb onto those buckets of filth, you forfeit your opportunity to be part of the group. I resist the urge to bang on the glass. Why would you want to be friends with people who do that to you? I want to scream. How could you just hand away your autonomy?

Oliver withdraws a photo of the handcuffs. Garrett flinches.

“Were you forced to wear these?”

Garrett squirms.

“We weren’t forced to do anything.”

“You see that?” Oliver leans in, tapping a murky splatter on the pliers next to the handcuffs. “That’s blood.”

There’s no way he could know this already. It’s just as likely a darker spot of rust. But Garrett won’t have any idea how long it takes to get lab reports back. His eyes are wide and haven’t moved from the place above Oliver’s finger.

He shakes his head. “No one used the pliers.”

I see Teddy shift. Oliver senses it, too.

“And this,” he moves his finger back to the photo of the handcuffs, “was covered in prints and skin particles. Someone,” he says, his voice a hushed whisper, “snapped it down tight. See here,” he points to the inside of the cuff, “that’s where it dug into the flesh so hard it drew blood.”

There’s nothing there, but it doesn’t matter. Garrett’s shivering, eyes transfixed by the photo, and my heart starts to hammer.

“Who wore the handcuffs?”

Garrett’s silent. He’s trembling so hard now, you’d think we’d cranked up the AC, but I know he’s remembering. The cold from the basement, it’s buried somewhere deep inside him, and Oliver’s questions, the photos, they’ve shaken it free.

“I told them not to.” It almost explodes from him. And he’s looking back and forth from Oliver to Teddy, pleading with them to believe him.

“I told them we had to stick together, but twenty-four hours—it seemed so long—and then, I don’t know what time.” He rubs his face. “But it was late and the door opened, and someone called down that there was a whip on the wall. As if we hadn’t noticed. He said if we didn’t come up with bruises they’d know we’d been jerking each other off all night. And they didn’t let faggots into Kap-O.” An ugly flush creeps up his neck. “He said we should take turns.”