When I wake up, I can tell by the warmth on my face that the sun’s shining. My eyes twitch a bit from keeping them closed as long as possible. When I open them, the day will begin to unfold, probably in ways over which I have little control. I squint against the bright light. I try to prepare myself.

If my phone was in reach, I’d message my mom. I’d text Delancey. Try not to worry, I’d tell them. I will find my way back. So much to explain when we reunite.

Now I know for certain they’re looking for me. That’s the touchstone I return to. All yesterday, all last night. Someone understood my message. I’m gone only because I was taken. I’ve not returned only because I’m not free to go. I’m Alice in chains; I’m Alice gone down the rabbit hole. Go ask Alice—she’ll tell you she wants to go home.

My head throbs in a foggy way. Nora’s up to her old tricks, but at least I can flex my arm and twist my wrist without wincing in pain. It looked like a break yesterday but maybe I overreacted. Today my arm aches but I can take it. I’m feeling stronger than I have in some time. Determined. Resolved.

The one thing I know for sure about today? It won’t be yesterday. Yesterday played out like a nightmare—both a horror film and its sequel. My failed escape and then my arm versus a slamming door—the rematch. Nora’s terrifying disintegration. And then the only thing worse. Her leaving.

Nora would point to it as proof of my narcissism, but sometimes it helps to imagine being interviewed about this ordeal. I compose careful answers. I try to take note of key details. Nora would say, You do everything for an audience.

But it helps to imagine eventually explaining it. I practice making sense of what’s happening. In any case, if someone asked, I would tell them. I was never more afraid than after Nora left. At first you think it’s a relief. The person who stays constantly at your side, who needs your approval for everything, finally steps away. Suddenly, you have space. You can breathe. Except you’re handcuffed and she has the key. You can barely move. You’re hungry and cold and then the darkness rolls in.

I thought Nora had opted for her exit strategy. Maybe she saw me hurt and panicked and decided to simply run. I’d scream and scream but eventually the vines and green would grow over the little cabin and seal me in; I would never be seen again.

The woman who interviews me might peer over her glasses then. She’ll ask, Shea, did you think Nora left you alone to die at that moment? And I will tell her. It was more than a moment. It was a moment that expanded into an hour and then stretched to a whole day.

It was a scream that I scraped into a bellow until my voice weakened to a rasp. I had quit and revived my efforts about twelve different times since the room had gone dark. By that time, I had decided to rest and then work to destroy the bed somehow. I thought I could drag it forward again and wear out the iron post against the wooden doorframe. Or try anyway.

Then I heard the truck rumble in, the footsteps scattering the gravel in the drive. The generator coughed and kicked in. Then eventually Nora stood in the doorway—flat and remote, but there.

It’s hard to accept how relieved I felt to see her. How will I describe what happens here? Nora pelted me with a sandwich. I crawled under the bed to reach it. I knew it was dosed and still I devoured it. Lay back and let the thick waves of whatever pills she sprinkled on my food roll over me. It felt warm in the room for the first time in a while.

I touch my bad arm with my chin, checking for damage. I motivate myself with the memory of standing outside with the open sky stretching above me.

I brushed so close to finally getting away from here. And glimpsed exactly how it will go if I don’t find a way out. When it’s time and she’s done with me, Nora will back her father’s truck out of the drive. She’ll leave me to scream until I am just an echo in the woods.

The doorknob turns and I fold into myself as much as possible. I peek out of my burrow to look for a phone in Nora’s hand. Please, I want to beg, do not take a video of me now. I feel like a wild creature. My hair is not my hair anymore. Tears and strings of snot have dried in a crust on my face. There’s a metal pail half-full of urine beside the bed. Nora could ruin me with one post. I know she has considered it. And maybe it is my own conceit, but it still matters to me. I’m desperately afraid two different ways—that Nora will film me and reveal me to the world. And that my fear means she’s been right about me all along—I am an animal of vanity—self-obsessed and concerned only with appearances.

She steps into the room. “How are you feeling?” When I hear the question, I remember the new rule: I only get to answer Nora now. I count as less of a person. There’s no more pretending we’re friends on a weekend jaunt.

“I’m okay today, thank you.” I am obedient. I watch and wait.

I must have spoken with a satisfactory amount of deference because Nora offers, “I promised you a shower.” My eyes stay down, fixed on the floor. I try to look meek but not too eager. She clears her throat. Nora’s not good at leading the conversation. She’s trying like I’m trying. We both play parts. “Shea, would you like a shower?”

It’s a risk because it’s different. It could be a trick or a trap. I try to run the math, but my brain still feels slack and slow. I go for the dream of hot water and clean hair: “Yes, please.” I was never going to say no.

“Last night I worked out a system. A secure system. It’s a great deal of effort. And the hot water demands a lot from the generator. It can’t be a daily thing.”

I’ve asked her for nothing. I almost nod before I remember that Nora has not actually asked a question. I wait, like a dog for a command. “Do you understand?” Nora’s impatient with her own dumb game. But I stay docile. I comply.

“I do. Quick shower, however you instruct me.” She nods and moves closer and steps back from the bedroom. I wait to see Nora’s system, half expecting her to wheel in a giant cage or a metal gurney on which she’ll strap me down.

She returns with a broom in her hand. That’s Nora’s sophisticated system of security. She wears a hoodie today and I can see the outline of a phone in her pocket. With one hand, she pulls the chain with the key over her neck. The other grips the broomstick: I see her knuckles whiten. I could reach out and grab the phone out of her pocket. It’s close enough for me to reach even with my hands bound in front of me. But I don’t have a plan for after. So I watch the weight of the phone swing forward. I think of the text I would send my mom: So much to explain.

Maybe Nora and I are both thinking of last time. She moves with purpose, but I know now how you work up the nerve to accomplish the frightening thing. It seems insane to imagine that’s who I am to Nora. No matter how broken I am, she’s still afraid I will overpower her.

Her hands tremble, the tiniest bit. I work to keep the smirk off my face. She moves fast; maybe she practiced again. Last night while I drifted in and out, Nora reviewed her kidnapping skills. She unlocks the handcuffs from the bed and switches the one loop to the broomstick. So now my hands are bound in front of me and then again to the wooden pole she holds in front of her.

The pole gives her more leverage. She can lean forward; that force pushes my whole body ahead. It’s a small shower stall. Nora nods for me to step in the tub and so I do, fully clothed and fairly confused. I try to look casually around as if I am appreciating the decor and not searching for any item that might function as a weapon. Nora has renovated: no more metal towel rack, no soap dish. She’s removed the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. All around me are smooth tiles and floral wallpaper. Nothing to grip to keep from falling, let alone an errant razor left miraculously on the tub’s edge.

Nora unhooks my hands in front of me and brandishes the broomstick like a weapon. “Now, quickly remove your shirt,” she barks. I’m startled enough to twist out of my shirt and sports bra. Even though my arm vibrates with pain. Even though I’m unchained for a tiny sliver of time. I hesitate, trying to map out every possibility, and the slim window of opportunity slams shut. Nora connects my wrist to the safety rail on the side of the tub with a grim snap. Besides the faucets, that counts as the only metal in the tiny room. “That rail is designed to stay put.” So am I, apparently.

She slides the broom out of the second set of handcuffs. “I’m going to step out now and wait outside. I’ll stand on the other side of the door. You should take care when the tile gets wet. It will be more slippery. You don’t want to fall. How’s your balance?” I lift my untethered arm into fifth position and give her a small smile. I raise my chin the way Madame Flint taught.

“Okay, don’t get overconfident. You’re weak and confused,” Nora informs me. “I’m setting the timer on my phone for five minutes. More than that and we’ll need gas for the generator sooner than we can afford. And too much time might tempt you to make trouble.” She looks at me sternly. “Shea, you’re not going to make trouble?” It’s both an instruction and a question. I risk a nod. Nora nods back like we just shook on an agreement, then closes another door between us.

Five minutes. I shimmy out of the rest of my clothes, leaning against the wall for support. I don’t waste time looking at the rainbow of bruises purpling my arm. I’ve already had enough time to stare at myself. I turn on the tap and let the water run until it warms and then I switch on the shower. With the water rushing and drowning out sound, I allow myself three strong tugs on the metal safety rail. I pull at the drain. Nothing budges.

Nora raps on the door. “Two minutes.” I feel the sobs climbing up my throat. I let the water fall on my face and wash away the hot tears. There’s no shampoo but I soap and rinse myself, all the while apologizing. I hear the eventual interviewer in my head: “Wasn’t there an opportunity to escape? And yet you chose a hot shower?”

I turn off the water before she has to tell me. Nora’s left a towel folded on the toilet. I wrap it mostly around myself and wait for the door to open. Nora muscles forward, brandishing her broomstick. She moves to make the switch with the handcuffs. I imagine crouching down, throwing my shoulder into her and toppling us both. But I’m docile, clutching the towel around me and letting Nora work a flannel shirt over my head and arm.

She tells me, “There are more clean clothes for you in the living room. I think the rig will allow you enough movement to finish getting dressed.” I follow her there and stand. I wait politely for Nora to fasten the chains. Maybe someday, someone will ask me, Is it true you just stood there and allowed yourself to be chained? It’s hard to describe what happens here, to explain the rules by which Nora and I live.

All I can feel in this moment is grateful for clean clothes that smell good and hopeful that Nora will let her guard down. She will slip again in some small way and that will be a better moment to pounce. Or I’ll hear another set of tires spray the small pebbles of the driveway and know that someone has finally succeeded in tracking us down.

Until then I relish the socks Nora has set out for me. They are thick and white. I maneuver into the rest of the clothes. She sets a brush on the floor beside me.

“Would you like me to brush your hair?” she asks.

I would like Nora to not touch me. But I understand there’s a danger in appearing unappreciative. “Yes, please. If you don’t mind, thank you.” It means I have to sit with my back to her then and feel Nora’s hands in my hair. She works the damp strands into two braids close to my scalp. It’s my favorite way to wear my hair. Another thing Nora knows about me. More of myself that I’ve given away online, without ever thinking that one day I might want every last sliver of my privacy back.

I have behaved well, sitting still and fully cooperating because Nora stands then and announces, “All set. It looks great. I think I got them close to the way you usually wear your braids.” At home Delancey braids my hair. They hate when I flinch, so I hold perfectly still. It feels like I am betraying everyone at home when I feel the plaits in my own hair and say, “Wow. Nora, they feel so straight. Thank you.”

Nora beams at me. And then she says, “Hold on a second. I have something for you.”

She’s wrapped the package and everything—in newspaper, but she’s even fashioned a bow from scraps of paper twisted together.

“I don’t understand,” I say. I don’t. “That’s so kind of you.” I question. “Especially after how I acted yesterday.” I simper. “I really don’t know what came over me. I just suddenly felt so homesick. I wasn’t thinking at all.” Nora stares at me, looking satisfied, and I keep chattering as I struggle to tear off the paper.

I’ve unwrapped a shoebox. I open it to see what is easily the coolest pair of sneakers I’ve ever actually held in my hand. They’re vintage Nike Dunk Low Pure Platinums. Deadstock, from what I can tell, never worn. And they are covered in Swarovski crystals. I hold them up and tip them so that they catch the light. They glimmer and I legit gasp.

Nora laughs. “You like them.”

“Like them? I love them.” I look up at her. I don’t know what to say. They are exactly my size—maybe more information that I posted hoping someone would send me freebies. I think back to that previous life, when I could not have imagined how complicated receiving a gift might be.

But now I know. “I can’t keep them,” I tell Nora. What I mean is I won’t hate you less. “You should wear them.” Because that is what I’d say to Delancey if they presented me with such an obscenely generous gift.

Nora shakes her head. She looks sad or wistful or some other emotion I haven’t yet learned to decipher completely. “No way. Those are sneakers for a star. I’m not there yet.” I open my mouth to argue, but Nora says, “No, that’s okay, Shea. You worked for years for your recognition. It was unfair of me to expect to reach that level right away.”

“You’ll get there, Nora.” And then I wince. I sound like a pretentious monster. And I spoke without waiting for a question.

But Nora doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah,” she says, sounding unconvinced. “Right now, I’m just really tired—up late last night and all. I’m going to go in the back room and rest. But we should record a video later. Otherwise, the trolls will think they got to me. You did an early U2, remember—it really kicked off your whole turn to punk and glam. We could do a callback to that. Or something totally different. Maybe some Pixies? ‘Gouge Away’ has a line about chains. Do you know that one?”

“I don’t think so. We don’t have to do a line about chains,” I say very carefully.

“Well, it’s your channel too, right? We should both be able to communicate. Do you want to hear the Pixies song?”

“Sure. Okay, Nora.” The air in the room has changed, almost imperceptibly. I’m walking a tightrope again, trying not to stumble into the hot vat of Nora’s anger. We sit there, on the living room floor, my phone between us, its volume turned up. Nora presses all the buttons, brings up the song. “Where did you find this one?” I ask as if it’s a casual, conversational question. As if I’m not trying to decipher the lyrics just like I hope our followers will at home. I risk talking out of turn.

“I spent a lot of time last night searching for the right song. The title grabbed me.”

“Yeah?”

“Here, listen again.” Nora hits play again, and I try to listen more closely. What am I missing? There’s a line about breaking an arm, there’s the description of chains. Nora insists, “I just really love the bass line.”

“Right. Me too. It’s a good choice, Nora.”

“You think you can choreograph something?”

“You mean for both of us, right?”

“Yeah, for both of us. Just think about it a little bit and then we can work out the routine after I’ve had a chance to rest.” She turns toward the bedroom and then turns back to me. “You should let the glue dry on the sneakers a little while longer. Okay?”

“Sure. Of course. You added the crystals?”

Nora nods slowly, and at first I think she’s angry that I asked the question, spoke out of turn. But she says, “I wanted you to have something special. I designed them just for you.”

“Thanks again.” She turns away and I feel strangely desperate for Nora to stay. In an interview, I’d be asked to clarify: You wanted your captor to stay and keep you company? I would try to explain. She’s the only person I’ve talked to for days and I am so lonesome. But Nora says she needs rest. I listen rather than risk another outburst.

Nora disappears into the back room. I hum the song and walk through plans. I measure steps and do my best to showcase Nora’s movements. Anything to protect her from the contempt of our commenters who don’t realize they endanger me when they upset the lumbering girl dancing alongside me.

When I get restless, I open the box and marvel again at the Nikes. Nora’s unhinged and all, but these sneakers would have been impossible to find. They must be a limited edition. If someone recognizes them on TikTok, maybe they can trace them to Nora. And then maybe they can trace Nora to me. I glance back at the shut door. It’s been a shockingly hopeful morning. What could it harm to try the sneakers on?

I stand and lean on the sofa. I ease my foot into the leather shoe and feel a strange resistance. They’re new, after all, and maybe they need breaking in. I push my toes forward and feel a searing pain on the sole of my foot. I yank my foot out to see red blood blooming against the white cotton of my sock. I shriek before I can stop myself, fling off the shoe and search for something to stanch the blood. That’s when I look up and see Nora standing in the doorway, staring at me. I ask the question before I remember that I’m not allowed to ask questions.

“What did you do, Nora? What did you do?”