The mystery cold had Case bedridden for a few days. After sharing the night together, Sir's visits were cut short. While Case was sick, Sir's interest in sex seemed to be on pause, and the only interest he had in Case swallowing was watching him take Ease-a-cold and vitamin tablets (likely making sure he wasn't ferreting them away for some attempt at an overdose). Sir would come and go, checking Case's temperature with the back of his fingers before giving him hot lemon tea or chicken broth. And in the interim Case would sleep. Perhaps a week later, Case woke up with clear sinuses and his throat no longer inflamed, and he knew Sir's reprieve was over. That night, Sir came back to Case's bed, but he didn't bring a tender touch. That night, when Case slept, he was thrown into a nightmare:

In his dream, Case was lost inside the boiler room of a submarine. Rusty pipes snaked up walls, temperature gauges hit red, large boilers and furnaces glowed fiery orange. His dream-self knew that the outside was the cold abyss of the deep ocean. But here, the fire burned so hot that the metal and air seemed to sweat. The steam was so thick, it snuffed out oxygen. Case ran, navigating narrow corridors and catwalks. His body was slick with perspiration, and his pulse raced with fear. Clanging footsteps approached him. Not only was he lost, he was being hunted.

A figure—its physique unnaturally lanky, stripped of clothes as well as skin—tracked him. The figure walked but it was closing the distance, fast. Case shut a door behind him, a crossbar lock barricading him in a safe dead end. An engine room with valves and blaring alarms. The figure's face appeared through a grimy peephole. Though its entire body had been flayed, its face had been preserved. A stretched, gray grimace stared at Case with empty sclera. The figure knocked on the window, not with a fist but with its face—it smashed its forehead against the peephole, again and again, even when the reinforced glass was smeared with blood.

Fear, hot like boiling water, surged through Case's circulatory system. He turned away, but the banging continued, relentless and reverberating. Then, something shifted, and Case was no longer alone. He was having sex with Hannah. She was sprawled across a control station, helpless like a turtle stuck on its shell, knees to her shoulders and purple hair plastered to her flushed-red face. Case fucked her, her breasts bouncing out of her bra, her exposed skin glistening with sweat and someone else's cum. Tiny pink nipples poked free from black lace and Case twisted the pert buds, wanting to hurt her. She wailed, cried his name Casey, torn between pain and pleasure. He kept thrusting, the slap of his skin on hers in rhythm with the figure smashing its face against the glass.

And then Case wasn't standing over Hannah, he was standing over Sir. Sir, naked and vulnerable as Case rutted into him. Sir's knees by his shoulders, his large chest thick with dark hair, his face contorted with the torture of an orgasm. Case fucked harder, faster, the figure howling as its face smashed through the broken glass, and Case's mouth was sour with vodka and candy, and temperature gauges whistled in the danger zone, and Sir cried out like a submissive whore, and Case's abdomen tightened like a coil strained with the need for—

Case woke to the rocking motion of humping against his mattress. The nightmare vanished and he came to his senses, aroused and disturbed. "Ugh," he groaned into his pillow, "what the fuck . . ." He rolled over, picking the sleep from his lashes, aware that his underwear was pitched like a tent. Here it was, his first morning wood in months.

Go with it, the voice told him. Case couldn't remember the last time he ejaculated, and his body ached with the need for release. Why keep denying yourself the pleasure?

Despite the accompanying shame of imagining such messed up shit, Case was tempted to finish himself off. The erection throbbed between his legs.

Don't be ashamed. It's okay, it's just a release. A biological need.

Tempting, but the mattress was already covered in crusty stains (some old, some fresh from the previous night). So, he took himself to the shower instead, and tried to resume where the dream had left off. Hot water hammered against his back as he jerked himself. But his conscious mind couldn't sustain the images of sex, and he soon went soft. The arousal was gone but the discomfort still lingered low in his scrotum. Case groaned again, accepting defeat. Physiology was weird.

"It's for the best," he muttered, lathering his hair with shampoo. He probably wouldn't be able to deal with the self-disgust if he'd nutted to the fantasy of hurting Hannah or plowing Sir. Some kinks were better off repressed.

The bar of soap had worn down to a sliver in his palm. Case continued to scrub himself clean (even though he'd showered before going to sleep). Bubbles foamed across his torso and between his legs, the tropical fragrance diluted with overuse. Under the shower spray, with the hiss from the pipes and the water splashing around him like heavy rain, Case didn't realize Sir had entered the basement until he was halfway across the room.

Oh. Case paused, his hand mid-swirl across his torso, soapsuds dripping from his abdomen down his legs. This was bound to happen eventually—for Sir to walk in while Case was indisposed, on the toilet or naked in the shower. Oh, I guess this is happening.

Sir carried the plastic tub, the contents rattling inside. He came to the shower cubicle, placing the tub on the ground for Case to see inside. New supplies: fresh toothpaste, a few bottles of Listerine; more rolls of toilet paper, another enema he wasn't going to touch; a 3-pack of antiseptic soap bars wrapped in a purple label for lavender fragrance and sensitive skin. New supplies, another month gone by, another tally-mark to scratch into the wall.

That means it's September. Case was meant to be starting senior year now. He was meant to be stressing about college applications, going to cheer rallies with his friends, maybe inviting a cute girl from English Lit class or Theater Club to homecoming.

Jay's still alive, the voice reminded him, the optimism twisting into Case as spite. Jay gets to go to cheer rallies and all that school-spirit shit. You could too, if you'd bothered to escape by now. Instead, you're wasting your time, trapped in here, doing nothing. A waste of a life—

Sir cocked his head to the side as he stared at Case under the shower spray. "Please," he said with a lazy smile, "don't rush on my account."

Case quickly rinsed himself then turned off the faucet. Wet hair curled and dripped in front of his eyes. He blew the water from his lips and wiped a hand over his face, deciding whether he should cup his hands over his privates or show defiance by remaining naked.

But then he saw Sir, really saw him staring, and an image from Case's nightmare flared in his mind: Sir underneath him, rosy skinned and moaning in the throes of pleasure and pain. Embarrassment burned his cheeks. He pushed the thought from his head with the same motion he brushed his wet curls back from his eyes. "Pass me a towel?"

Sir gave a thoughtful pout as he pretended to head-check the basement. A shrug, a Cheshire Cat grin, a nonverbal sorry, can't help you.

Case glowered back. He reached over the corrugated iron half-wall, grabbing the hand towel from the rail on the other side.

Sir propped his arms against the wooden framework of the shower, leaning slightly forward into Case's space. He nodded, gesturing to the supplies tub. "This enough to satisfy your needs?"

Case dried himself with a towel too small to wrap around his waist. "A game would be nice."

"A game?" Sir made a noise, a mix between a scoff and a suppressed laugh. "What, like Monopoly?"

Water dripped from Case's hair, landing and gliding down the curve of his spine. Was Sir taking him serious? "No . . . Like a handheld console?"

Sir didn't respond. The absence of no, the absence of a dismissive laugh. Either Case had made such an absurd request that Sir was legitimately stupefied, or he was considering a yes.

"I . . ." Case hadn't planned this. He'd wished for a game or something to relieve the boredom for so long, but he'd never put the thought into how he would ask for one.

Sir examined him, impassive except for the quirk of a sneer in his lip.

"Look," Case started again, refusing to waver. He picked up the supplies tub, held it low to his waist and stepped past Sir. "I know I can't have a TV or anything plug-in because there's no wall sockets," he continued, carrying the tub to put it away under the stairs. Keeping his back to Sir, he opened the top drawer for a clean pair of underwear. "But maybe I could have a Switch? Or-or a GameBoy—" Case flinched and went still, Sir's hands curling around either side of his shoulders.

"And how are you going to power this console?" Warmth radiated from Sir's body, as if the sun had permeated into his clothes. Or the fire from Case's nightmare had carried over into the waking world.

It must be midday outside, the voice told him, as if reason would undo the tightness in his throat. Strange, when he's here it always feels like night.

"A charger cable to go with your aforementioned lack of electrical ports, or—" Sir ran a finger up Case's neck, gently along his carotid artery "—looped nicely around your neck?"

Dizzyingly, Case was spun around and forced to face Sir. Stormy eyes held him in place.

"Or did you think I'd be at your beck and call, running up and down these stairs to charge it just so you can play Mario Kart by yourself?"

Case was so ensnared by the hypnotic snake gaze, it took him a moment to realize he was mirroring Sir's subtle shake of the head. No.

No, he told himself. No, don't let him do this. "Okay—not a console." Case shrugged, weaseling out of Sir's hold. He threaded his legs through his underwear, mentally scrambling. If he had access to the internet, he could easily search for a single player board game. But off the top of his head? "Monopoly or Scrabble or—"

"Games are two-player hazards, Casey." On that note, Sir tapped his open palms on his thighs, marking the conversation over. He pulled away, severing their closeness.

"Cards!" Case followed him, stumbling as he pulled his underwear up and side-stepped the supplies tub in his way. "I'll play Solitaire or something—"

"Alright." Sir resumed, on the lower steps, on higher ground. "I'll give you a deck of cards, if you can explain the rules for Solitaire."

Shit. Why did he say Solitaire? When he was a little kid, he'd watched his Dad and older brother Alex play Solitaire and Minesweeper on the old family computer. But no one had ever tried to include him or teach him to play on his own.

"Do you know how to play Solitaire?" Sir raised his brow, his condescending smile unrestrained. "How about Klondike? Emperor? Devil's Grip, perhaps?"

Case bit the inside of his cheek, clenching his jaw.

"No? Well, that's a shame." Sir continued up the stairs.

"Wait!" For the first time, Case dared to follow Sir. Only a few steps, the sight of Sir's back rooting him to the spot. The embossed surface pressed into his bare soles.

Sir's thumbs pressed into keypad buttons, too far for Case to ascertain the code. The click-thunk of the mechanism unlocking brought him to his senses.

"No—Sir, wait, please, ple—"

The door swung open, fluorescent light from the vestibule on the other side slicing through the basement like a rip in his dimension.

"Wait! C'mon, please, wai—" He took a step higher, his feet cementing themselves as far as they dared to tread "—what am I going to do, slice my wrists with a pack of cardboard? Please!"

Sir stepped into the light, his large form blotting out the brightness before it was snuffed out entirely by the metal door snapping closed. Case stared at the door, the edges of his vision turning bright and blurry. He took a deep, deep, steadying breath.

You tried, said the voice, and you failed. How typical.

"No . . ." Case muttered in reply. No, this didn't feel like a failure; at least, not entirely. Maybe he could ask for things, if he had a good argument. Sure, this could have been the childish idealism in him, but it was something he wanted to hold onto, and that felt like a win.