He has finally summoned the bravery to approach the first box.

I placed it just so, in the corner of the room, its edge perfectly parallel to the concrete wall. The chain that is tying him to the wall is stretched, but not all the way. This box is easy to reach – much easier than the one on the opposite side of the room. His eyes have darted across to that one a number of times, his mind weighing up if he will be able to reach it. But that isn’t the question he should be focusing on.

He stares down at the box. I wonder how long it will take him to reach down, his hands outstretched and trembling. It took him far longer than I had expected to even approach it in the first place. Maybe he thinks that if he doesn’t acknowledge its existence, if he doesn’t open the lid, the process of being in this room will stall. Because he knows where he is. He must do. Or maybe he thought he would never end up here.

Foolish, really.

Anticipation swirls in my chest as he continues to gaze down at the box, his eyes wide – a deer gawping at the long beams of light stabbing down the road towards it. What will he make of the first photograph? What will he feel? A rush of fear? Of panic? Or the slow, creeping fingers of realization?

I lean in, watching intently, desperate to see every minute detail of his reaction.

Open it.

Open the box.