I looked across the way and saw a small kitchenette against the wall opposite the bathroom area. Not much counter space and what there was was taken up with a coffeemaker, a toaster, a microwave, and a dish drainer. Clean dishes in the drainer. Shelves over the sink with food and a variety of mismatched tableware. An old, bulbous-fronted, white fridge to one side, a narrow stove to the other.

Beyond that, two wooden hutches, their front door handles linked with chain and locked with padlocks. Secrets behind those doors, and in my current situation, I wasn’t a big fan of secrets.

On the opposite wall to the milk crates, the bed I was on, shoved against the wall. Iron. Old. Unattractive. Though, the mattresses were good. The sheets light blue. The comforter rust colored. Lots of pillows. A standing lamp at the headboard, a nightstand beside it.

By the kitchenette, an ugly, old, round metal table with three chairs, none of them matching.

Rounding this out, a comfortable-looking-but-nevertheless-ratty armchair, a small round table beside it, a standing lamp next to the table, and sitting dead center in the room, the lamp’s plug attached to an extension cord that snaked to the wall. A trip hazard if there ever was one.

But whatever. I wasn’t going to be around long enough to trip.

I scanned the space and noted there were no rock concert posters on the walls. No calendars depicting Camaros or scantily clad babes draped over Porsches. No racks filled with weapons. No insane manifestos written in precise, tiny handwriting on every inch of wall. All of this how I would guess that guy would decorate.

There also weren’t any books. No stereo. No CDs. Not even a TV.

But there were two long, narrow garden-level windows, bars on the inside, blacked out.

If I was correct, these windows faced the street.

It was late; it had to be after one in the morning.

But I had to try.

I ran to the kitchenette, heaved myself up to my knees on the counter, and reached to the window.

I tried to find a latch to open it, but there wasn’t one. I looked to the other and saw it didn’t have one either.

Foiled again!

Not giving up, I commenced pounding on it and shouting, “Help! Help! I’m held captive in here! Basement room off the alley under the Dumpster! If you can hear me, please help me! Call the police! My name is Delilah Johnson! Help me! Please!”

I kept pounding and shouting and heard nothing. I did this for a while, until my voice started to get scratchy and my hand began to hurt.

I kept doing it until I heard the door behind me start to scrape open.