Years ago, the first time she peered down this hallway, it looked like an endless cave. Like something that would swallow her whole if she traveled too far down its throat. Now, as she wipes away her tears, she can see everything so clearly, as if the hall is full of light. She can see every door spaced in parallel to either side of her, and she can see the incoming doors, and the end where they stop. If it weren’t for her tears blurring her vision afresh, she would also be able to see each crack and stain that winks at her as if to say see you soon.

She brings herself to a careening stop so as not to slam into the concrete wall at the end of the hallway. To her right the floor becomes stacked and staggered blocks leading downward into the underneath of the world. The underneath of the Outside? A staircase to somewhere unprecedented, like in the photographs.

She looks back behind her. She can see the door to her room at the other end, still wide open, her daddy’s distant figure small and watching. Will he come after her . . . or is he waiting for her to come back? To return to him, her shoulders sunk and submission in her eyes.

No.

Either way, she is in too heightened a state of adrenaline to be motionless, and her flight instincts only push in tandem with the pull in her gut, leading her like a friend would lead a helpless puppet.

She takes the first step down into the unknown, then the second, farther than her body has ever traveled before. A couple more stairs and her feet catch on to the downward motion, dormant muscles awakened by the energizing burn.

Skipping the last few steps altogether, she leads herself to a floor that is flat and wide, more like a square than a narrow pathway. It too is lined with closed doors—not with locks like hers but rather small holes. She runs around the perimeter, looking for another exit, another hallway, but none are visible. She grabs at knobs and pushes against them. One door aggressively snaps back at her when she shoves, the metal portal glued to its frame. The others swing open, smacking into the walls of their empty concrete rooms. Rooms with nothing but blank space in grayscale. No bed, no toys—and all dead ends.

She scales the walls, a caged animal desperately searching for a way out, until she comes across a tall door made of dark wood rather than steel. She grabs the knob—made of gold rather than silver—and gives the heavy plank of wood a vicious thrust, using the side of her body as leverage.

The door gives in without objection. She nearly falls forward from the unexpected momentum.

A burst of air hits her face, carrying a scent . . . strange and complex. Fresh and dirty, almost like cold water mixed with grime. She realizes she is getting wet. Water falls from an endlessly black ceiling poked with holes that glisten, showering her. Making her dress stick to her skin. She looks about. She looks about the Outside. Everything in the Outside is dark and wet.