Case and Hannah were the shining beacon of high school sweethearts. Lovebirds, people called them: rarely apart and usually referred to as a collective. Sophomore year, Case had started listening to garage punk and riding his skateboard, and Hannah had dyed the front streaks of her mousy hair bubblegum-pink and framed her eyes with black kohl. If they posted selfies, they got a decent number of likes and comments on how cool they looked; but if they posted a pic together, they went semi-viral with heart reacts and you guys r so cute! Couple goals. Make babies plz.

Hannah made sure their class schedule was identical, even if that meant he had to give up one or two classes with his friends to join her in English Lit or Music Theory. On lunch breaks, they sat in the quad with their friends—a converging of his and hers, a recipe that didn't necessarily blend well. Somedays, Evan and Miles would crave something different: a game of basketball, or sneaking off campus for lunch and cigarettes. But whenever Case tried to follow, even if he asked permission first, Hannah would remind him she didn't want to leave her friends.

How could he leave her? They were a couple, they were meant to be together always. And if he got too pushy, too unreasonable, she'd warn him: if you're not there at lunch, I'll break up with you. It was fine to be this codependent, because they were sixteen and they were in love. And wasn't this what love was supposed to be?

* * *

Case was woken by the mechanical rattle of the dumbwaiter. Disorientated and half-asleep, his first instinct was to reach for his phone to check the time, until his surroundings crystalized (a bare mattress instead of his Space Jam bedsheets; an open shower made of iron and pipes instead of his bookshelf full of games and photo-frames he'd turned around instead of thrown away) that he remembered where he was and scoffed at his own dumbness.

The drug must have still been in his system. Wearing off, but sending him on a comedown. He opened the dumbwaiter, expecting the same bare essentials chicken-and-rice Sir had been feeding him for the last few days (Case had already determined that Sir had him on a schedule, giving him the same pre-prepared and microwaved meal once a day). Except this time, he found a bowl, made from the same toddler-friendly plastic, and a shallow spoon instead of a dull fork. Steam wafted toward him, and Case caught the smell of warm milk and honey.

Case took the still-hot bowl, his stomach already grumbling with interest. Inside was a serving of oats, sticky and swollen like lumps of craft-paste. His mouth watered: finally, something different to eat. Case settled himself on the bed, eating spoonfuls of oatmeal that either burned his tongue or were still cold in the middle. Not that a few microwave issues bothered him. His deprived taste buds were singing from the hit of sugar. How long had it been since he'd eaten something sweet, or had the freedom to raid a fridge whenever he wanted?

How many days have I been here? Case wondered as he chewed, the flavour in his mouth turning acridic. Seven days? Ten? Over a week, missing, presumed dead . . . Milk curdled on his tongue, turning his insides sour. His family thought he was dead. They were planning his funeral . . . Wait, had they already held it? Already mourned him over an empty coffin?

No—no, there was a crime. A murder. Police were investigating. And when police found Sir, they'd find Case. And he'd be alive, unharmed and untouched, and he'd get to go home to his family. All Case had to do was wait, survive until he was rescued.

Case swallowed. There were still a few mouthfuls of oatmeal left, but he'd lost his appetite and pain in his throat was creeping back. Hangover clamping over his head. He put the bowl and spoon back in the dumbwaiter, then stripped back down to his underwear for a shower. As steaming water hammered against his back, he reassured himself that he was fine. All he had to do was keep this up and survive a little longer until someone came to his rescue.

You can do that, encouraged the voice. You can deal with this.

The worst part about waiting would be the loneliness. Case lathered his arms in body wash. He scrubbed hard, fingernails scratching stinging-red lines into his skin. Brain synapses flared and pulsed, like lights on a DJ pad, with thoughts of Sir. Sir brought Case food, and he could hold a conversation. He even cared enough to distract Case when he was upset, or want his consent before touching him.

Sir's not so bad. He might even care about you.

He wasn't violent either, not really. Yeah, getting strangled was a bad example—but Case had provoked him. Sir didn't even hit him when Case attacked him with the toilet lid. Maybe Sir didn't want to be violent? Maybe, unless he was really pushed, Sir was all empty threats?

That's right, empty threats, the voice repeated. Remember, Casey: boys don't get raped. You weren't raped. That kinda thing doesn't happen to boys. You're fine. Nothing is going to happen to you.

* * *

Over the next few days, Sir continued to care for him. Prodded his neck to check for injuries, shone lights in his eyes. Gave him pills that made him happy and floaty. Brought him chicken soup, homemade ("I can't say I have any cans of Campbell's in the pantry," Sir said, the Southern charm affecting his lilt. "Not a fan, not with all those added preservatives and hidden nasties. But I'll see what I can do for you."). Touched him with gentle, healing hands. Calm, care, kindness. And Case (or the voice, it was getting harder to differentiate) continued to tell himself, See, Sir can be gentle. He can be nice. If you don't make him mad. It might not be so bad. It might be gentle, too.

"It'll be okay," he would murmur, alone in the dim basement. "Sex with Sir is going to be okay."

It was just sex. No, not that—intercourse. Rid the act of its intimacy, remember this was a transaction. The cost of survival, the price for a ticket home. Once it was over, once Case gave Sir what he'd wanted all along, transaction complete, there'd be no reason for Sir to keep him here. Sir would let him go home. Because Sir was gentle, Sir was kind . . .

As time dragged on, it became harder for Case to find the motivation to stick to a routine. Instead of running laps, he'd wander in circles, testing his vocal cords by humming to himself or talking to Gary the Rat. Instead of doing yoga, he'd sprawl across the unfurled mat because at least it meant he'd gotten out of bed.

Days went by, and a slimy buildup of soap scum began to form in the corners of the shower. There was a heavy discomfort growing in Case's scrotum. A need for release. One day, he tried jerking off in the shower—he told himself it was okay, that it was a basic biological need, that it would help him relax. Relieve all the pent up stress. Twenty-five steps from the bed to the shower. He squeezed his eyes tight, trying to conjure some image of bare tits or sex or girls moaning. But his thoughts couldn't focus; without pornography, his mental image of girls and sex crystalized as a drunken hookup from a party he was determined to forget. Then Sir kept popping up instead, and Case couldn't bring himself to climax or keep himself hard. His dick went limp in his still-pumping fist, and he gave up, crying as lukewarm water hammered down on him.

Mostly, he stayed in bed even if he was wide awake. He made up stories, made up conversations. Sometimes, he imagined himself like Iron Man escaping that desert shack, building a suit of armor from all the fixtures in the basement. His dreamself dismantles the shower, the ventilation shaft, the stair railings, and creates an indestructible suit of armor. He shoots his way through the first locked door. The second locked door swings open and reveals Sir, sweat on his brow and his face slack with horrified-realization. Case's dreamself shoots him, clearing the way to freedom. He walks over Sir's charred and bloodied body, then flies halfway across the country back home.

Sometimes, he went back to the day he suggested to Evan and Miles they should go camping. When he suggested they try God-Tier LSD because that would skyrocket them to the top of some proverbial hierarchy of high school coolness. This time, he listens to them when they say that sounds stupid. They say he isn't thinking or acting right because of the breakup, and when he tells them yeah, I know he actually means it this time. He listens when they suggest they go to someone's Lake House. And they stick to their cheap beer and stale weed, jamming out playing guitar and singing off-key together, going to sleep when the sun is rising and waking up when the day is hot and half-over to rinse and repeat and do it all over again. And they have a totally average time, that's totally memorable for the rest of their long-lasting lives.

Rarely, he went back to Hannah. He scripted out arguments, dealing with unresolved issues and confrontations that will never happen (even if he hadn't been kidnapped). His dreamself catches Hannah fucking that football jock, and he screams at her. Screams and screams all the raw and ugly shit he should have said in the last year of their relationship. And she begs his forgiveness, says she's sorry for how she has treated him, she made a mistake. That she loves him, something she hasn't said in days or meant in weeks. But it's too late, because he's finally become undone and found his voice. He tells her she used his body, twisted his mind, and broke his heart. Tells her yes, it did happen and no, he didn't ask for it and it's her fault he's broken.