A faint scratch sounds from the other side.

A smile creeps across her lips. She curls her hand into a fist and knocks.

There is a moment of pause and she worries that she only imagined the sound. But soon after, a knock returns to her from the other side.

She bounces and giggles, settles herself down, and knocks twice.

Two knocks return to her from the other side.

Entertained by the distraction from her lack of lollipop, she plays: knock once, knock twice, knock twice, and then knock three times; a scratch here and a scratch there. Without fail, her sound is returned. A few times, she scratches shapes into the wall, like the outline of a stuffed blue dog or a smile, and listens for the shape to be scratched back to her through the concrete. She thinks she can hear the shape of a lightbulb.

As she listens, she hears a snap. She tilts her head to the side and waits for more, trying to understand the sound, but now there is only silence.

The realization dawns on her that the snap did not come from the other side of the wall.

She cowers away, standing as quickly as possible.

The door opens.

The thumping picks up, pounding in her chest, and she can’t understand why she suddenly feels so sick. The anxiety in her stomach tugs at her guts.

“My sweet, I think I found a dress to—”

He stops in front of the doorway, a new white dress across his shoulder. She watches him sniff the air, his nostrils pulsating, before he asks:

“What is wrong?”

“What do you mean, Daddy?”

She acts innocent, trying to minimize the tremble in her voice. As she looks up at him, she can’t help but notice the long dark hallway behind him. For a fleeting moment, she thinks about making a run for it. About bolting down the dark corridor into the Outside, escaping into the mouth of the unknown. But what would she be running from?

He steps away from the door and slams it shut behind him without taking his eyes off her.

“Why are you afraid?”

“I’m not afraid, Daddy!”

He takes a step toward her, kneels down, and motions with his hand for her to come closer. She obeys and takes a step toward him. He motions again, not happy with the fear-filled distance between them, and she steps closer and closer until she is only a few inches away from the tip of his still nose. He reaches his hand out and brushes her cheek.

“Your skin is warm,” he observes, and brings his hand to her chest. “And your heart is beating fast . . . faster than usual . . .” His eyes squint into a glare. “I’ll ask again. Why are you afraid?”

Before she can answer, there is a knock on the wall. A knock that, although distant and muted behind thick slabs of concrete, fills the room with a never-ending echo of guilt. She remains facing him, biting her lip in hope that he won’t notice. But his head whips to look at the corner of the room where the mattress meets the wall. Where the scratch sometimes secretly greets her.