Slowly, she turns away on her heels, a zombie caught between emotion and instinct.

She faces now a collection of open doors on the ground floor of this concrete building, a row of mouths waiting to be entered, all except for one that remains shut, still concealing its secrets. But even the open doors—the ones that reveal their empty, seemingly innocent insides—hold secrets. Who are they for? Why are they here? What is their purpose? She frowns, suddenly indignant, suddenly enraged by the restricted knowledge, the lack of understanding that is no fault of her own but of a world wanting to keep her blind. A world that won’t stop mercilessly expanding beyond her.

No . . . not Daddy.

She steps up to the locked door, places her hand on the knob, and twists. It refuses to budge. She twists harder and harder, directing all her strength into it, determined to get behind the door and see what it hides. She grits her teeth and gives it a final tug.

The knob snaps into pieces. Hunks of metal fall from the socket, leaving a gaping hole.

She hesitates, realizing that what she finds when she crosses this threshold might not be a comfort. In her room, when the world only reached so far as her concrete walls, she felt safe. She felt safe with what her daddy chose to tell her, even if her bliss was fleeting. Because he understood that knowing any more might break her.

I’m here to keep you safe. To protect you.

Knowledge is only so freeing.

“What is death?”

Nothing.

But ignorance feels worse.

She pushes against the door with the tip of her finger. It easily swings open.

She steps inside.

She is greeted by a crowd of metal tables lined across the expansive walls, dividing the room down the center. These high walls are made of concrete, uniform with the rest of the building, but blackboards rest on each table, covering the lower half of the walls with their white, chalky scribbles and tacked-on documents. The room looks neat and tidy at first glance, but as she circles around, she spots scattered glass bottles and tubes filled with moisture resting atop piles of loose papers stained with splotches of sweat. They tell a different story. One of mania. One of someone attempting to cover up panic with a hasty brush. The center table holds machines decorated with buttons and dials she dares not turn. Shelves are crammed into the corners, filled with old-looking books and dusty files. But regardless of the clutter and debris, it still all looks so sterile.

She makes her round to the other side of the room and stops in front of a perfectly lined row of silver syringes, each one empty, the needles pointed toward her. At the end of the table against the wall is a glossy white box. She opens its lid. It hisses, and when the smoke dissipates, she sees that inside are even more syringes displayed across the box’s inner shelving. But these are not empty. They are pregnant with red.