At some point, Case made the conscious decision that the bed was taboo. He moved back to his corner under the stairs, repeating his whispered affirmations: I'm not bamboo – I'm steel.

I won't break.

I won't break.

There was no way for him to measure the passing time – no windows, no change in the dim lights – but he was there long enough for his backside to go completely numb. When he couldn't feel that part of his body anymore, it dawned on him that he couldn't feel his underwear either.

Dread washed over him, as if he were submerging into a tub of cold water. He was certain he'd figured out what Sir wanted from him – and he hadn't forgotten the fact Sir had undressed him while he was unconscious. It was possible that Sir had already taken advantage of him.

His body was too numb for him to feel if anything was different. Hell, would he feel different? There'd always been so much emphasis from victims of sexual assault – at least, the ones he saw on TV and in movies – that their bodies felt unexplainably different. That their bodies didn't feel like theirs anymore. Case didn't feel like that. Not yet, anyway.

But he had to be sure. He ran his hand down the side of his thigh, but couldn't feel through the thick material of the sweatpants. That horrible sick feeling was rising again. He swallowed, pushing it back down. He got up onto his feet.

The loss of blood flow to his backside felt like he'd been anesthetized. Or as if that part of his body didn't belong to him anymore.

Bracing himself, Case took a deep breath.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, and – Yes! Yes, there it was! A second elastic waistband, the top of his underwear. Case breathed in relief, the tension exhaling out of him as an unsteady giggle. It was all okay. He was okay. He pulled the top of the sweatpants away from his body, and saw –

Gray.

Not orange-and-green. Not the stupid, childish Space Jam trunks – cartoon basketballs and Bugs Bunny – he'd put on before leaving home. No.

Gray. Plain, dark gray briefs he'd never seen before. Fabric he'd never felt hugging his body before.

Case stayed that way, thumbs sandwiched between the two elastic waistbands, frozen as if he'd turned to stone. Up until now, his moments of panic had been white flashes of adrenaline overriding his senses. But now, it was as if his mind had vacated, leaving his body behind as a hollow statue.

Sir had violated him. God, fuck it, he might as well call it what it was: rape. Sir had drugged him, stripped him, and raped him.

You don't know that, the detached, logical voice told him.

"Yes, I do," Case replied to himself, shaky yet certain. "He did, he did it."

He didn't.

"He did. I know he did."

Then why aren't you in pain?

True – as he regained blood flow and sensation to his lower half, he noted the absence of pain. Hell, even the absence of discomfort.

Case remembered the first time he'd fingered a girl – Ellie Dixon, in middle school when they'd gotten drunk off of black cherry flavored Mike's Hard Lemonade at a party. They'd made out with purple tongues, fumbled in each other's pants for a few minutes – unsure, nervous, exhilarated – then bragged to an unwilling audience for the rest of the night.

And he remembered the first time he'd had sex – Hannah Waite, his only long-term girlfriend. Now ex after she'd cheated on him.

Both girls had complained afterward about feeling sore down there. Case didn't feel anything.

Okay – yes, he has seen you naked, came the voice of reason, keeping him grounded, reeling in that kite-string attached to hysteria. That doesn't mean he touched you. Not seriously, anyway. But he will. So you can either sit around and do nothing, waiting for him to do God knows what, or you can try and get the fuck out of here.

But how? Case looked around at his surroundings again. There wasn't much to miss. He'd already tried the ventilation shaft and the weird roller-door thing.

The door . . .

Case lifted his head, eyes following the metal staircase up into the darkness. Dread re-settled in his stomach, by this point making his body its home. The instinct to stay hidden under the stairs, to fool himself into believing nothing would happen to him here, rooted him to the spot.

But that voice of reason, nagging and urging, pushed him forward. Maybe he could find a way out. Maybe he did have a chance . . .

He took the stairs slowly, the metal grating imprinting into his bare feet. A single light – embedded in the wall, a cage over its face like a Hannibal Lecter muzzle – was his beacon, guiding him to the top landing. At first, it seemed the stairs led to a dead end. His pulse quickened at the endless sight of brick walls – to his side, up ahead. Behind him, below. Nothing but bricks bricks bricks.

But as he got higher, he could see the framework for the door sticking out of the wall at the top of the landing. Somehow, it inspired a surge of excitement and he sped up the last few steps. This was it – the way out.

Case grabbed the handle, too swept up in a flurry of relief and elated-anxiety to consider if the other side was safe. He twisted the handle – and felt the hard resistance of the lock under his hand.

Of course . . . of course it was locked. God, he was so stupid. Even though he knew it wouldn't work, he jiggled the handle a few more times – thump, thump – letting the disappointment settle in.

It wasn't until then that he actually took a proper look at the door. The front panel of the handle had a code lock – two rows of buttons, numbered 1-9 followed by 0 and X-Y-Z-C. An old meme popped into his head: a similar lock, the numbers for the code worn away by the constant use. Case chuckled to himself, staring hard at the pristine buttons in front of him. How long would it take him – how many visits from Sir – before he could figure out the code? Maybe that's what he could do to pass the time down here: press random buttons until he unlocked his freedom.

So that's what he did. He pressed the keys – sometimes at random, sometimes something of meaning like his birthday – the handle thumping under his hand with every attempt. Not that he had any naivety of it working. No, he stood there, failing to open a door, steeping in his hopelessness.

He wondered what his parents would do when they realized he was missing. His dad would probably shut down. Would carry on, going through the motions – wake up, go to work, come home, maybe have a few too many drinks before bed, rinse-and-repeat. Unemotional, uncommunicative, he would go on existing rather than living.

His mom would probably be in denial for a while, check his bedroom every morning and make his dinner every night, clinging to the slight chance he was going to walk through the door and everything would stay right in their world. He gets it from her – that idealism. That childish way of facing problems, meeting reality with delusion.

How about his siblings? He was one of five kids. Two brothers, two sisters, with Case smack bang in the middle. He wondered if any of them would notice he was gone. He wondered if any of them would care.

Thump. Case paused.

What if he didn't need to open the door? What if . . . what if someone opened it for him? Okay, sure, it was a long shot. But what if he could somehow get past Sir?

No . . . he told himself, his heart quickening just at the idea. No, that's stupid.

Not if you have a weapon, came the voice of reason. Something to knock him out so you can get by.

But what could he use? He'd already searched the basement for a way out and found nothing.

Look again.

Case hurried back downstairs. He did a preliminary scan of his surroundings: Bed. Pillow. Shower. Vent. Toilet. Sink –

The toilet! Of course, that's it – there was no lid, but there was a seat. He could use that, smash it over Sir's head the next time he came in and make a quick getaway. He just had to get it unscrewed.

Case knelt by the toilet, running his fingers along the seat's hinges. Surely, there had to be bolts keeping it in place. When he couldn't find anything, he lifted and closed the wooden seat a few times just to confirm it did exist. He lifted the seat again, finally spying the screws on its underside. He tried untwisting them with his fingers, quickly realizing he was going to have the same problem he had with the grate on the ventilation shaft.

Case poked the tip of his little finger into the top of the screw, hoping his nail could work as some kind of Torx head. He twisted – and felt the sharp pain of slicing the tip of his finger. "Fuck," he hissed, whipping his hand back. A white flap of skin hung from his pinky, revealing a red crescent but no blood. He sat back on his heels, his body deflating with a sigh. "Fuck . . ."

The tank.

His eyes traveled up the body of the toilet tank, all the way to the lid. I wonder . . . Case reached out until his fingers grazed the seam. Gently, he pushed up.

The lid moved. A sliver of a gap.

YES!

Case scrambled onto his feet. With both hands, he lifted the lid from the tank. It came away with ease. The inside was all water and valves and tubes – none of it important. All that mattered was the slab of solid porcelain in his hands. This was it. This was his key out of here.

He raced back up to the top of the stairs – fueled by the resurgence of confidence and hope – heavy porcelain in hand. He pressed himself into the corner so he'd be behind the door when Sir came in. He raised the lid up, ready to strike.

And then he waited.

And waited.

And waited . . .