She had no idea how to pick a lock. She had only seen it done in movies. But movies were for people with both hands free, with light, with strength, with time. Lily had all the time in the world and none of the rest.
Still, trying felt better than waiting to be damaged.
She worked the bobby pin toward the latch for what might have been an hour, maybe longer. Her hand cramped. The pin bent uselessly. Twice it slipped and clattered away. Once she almost sobbed from frustration. The padlock never changed.
But the effort gave her something the crate had been taking from her minute by minute.
It gave her back the idea of resistance.
On Sunday morning, the third day, Lily woke with her cheek pressed against the blanket and a pounding behind her eyes. For a moment she did not know where she was.
Then she tried to stretch and hit metal.
The reality of it returned all at once.
She had to swallow carefully to speak when Carol came downstairs carrying toast and a mug of coffee for herself.
Carol looked fresh. Showered. Rested. She had on jeans and a pale blue sweater and the small gold hoop earrings she wore to church sometimes. She glanced at Lily the way a person might glance at a mess they planned to clean later.
“Well,” Carol said. “Still dramatic?”
Lily’s lips were dry and cracking. “Dad’s coming home.”
“Eventually.”
“He’s going to know.”
Carol sipped her coffee. “Know what?”
Lily stared at her.
Carol’s eyes held a terrible calm. “That you locked yourself in a crate in the basement during one of your episodes? That you refused to come out because you were ashamed? That you made up another story about me because you can’t stand not being the center of attention?”
Lily felt all the air leave her lungs.
“You can’t say that.”
