bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

When Case finally woke again, it was a slow drag back into consciousness. He kept his eyes closed, too tired and weak to open them. His head continued to pound and swirl, but he finally had the comfort of laying on something stable and soft – a bed? His bed back home?

He stayed that way for a long while, in a lucid doze willing himself to fall back into a deep, dreamless sleep. He pictured rainy mornings, listening to the pelt of rain against his window as he curled up in a cocoon of warm and heavy blankets.

But there was no rain. Just empty silence.

A shiver ran through him, the skin on his exposed arm prickling with goosebumps. Wherever he was now, he wasn't covered by a blanket. He stirred, groaning, his muscles and joints achingly stiff. At least the need to throw up wasn't as awful anymore.

Case opened his eyes, squinting through his headache.

Light – dim and yellow, not blinding like the sun. It took a few seconds for his vision to adjust and the blurry shapes to come into focus.

Stripes. Long, thin and narrow stripes running up a section of wall. Shiny . . . metal? Wooden beams, framework, holding up smaller sections of the corrugated dividers.

What is that?

As his vision cleared his perplexity grew.

A pipe jutted out from the wall, angled downward. No, not a pipe – a showerhead.

Case's lazy heartbeat jumped with a spike of alarm. His eyes widened, darting sideways. He saw a sink with no mirror. A toilet, cold porcelain, no lid.

Case bolted upright – the blood rushing from his head and leaving him woozy. He took in his surroundings, absorbing every detail and the shock all at once: he was in a basement – he had to be, judging by the stairs leading upward and the absence of windows or natural light. Plasterwalls – tiny cracked veins, surface holes exposing red brick – and a concretefloor. All of it gray-turned-beige under the dim light. That thing he had seen when he first woke up, an open shower cubicle made of iron-sheeting. The thing beneath him, a bed stripped of everything except a bare mattress and pillow.

"No-no-no-no-no," Case said, a panicked loop he was unable to stop. He pushed himself off the bed, swaying on jelly-legs, the walls spinning around him.

Pipes. Large pipes snaking in-and-out of the walls. A water-boiler system. A ventilation shaft.

"No-no-no oh, shit, no-no-no . . ."

Case doubled over. Hands on knees, fingers tingling. Tight chest. Surroundings whiting out. Hyperventilating. Hyperventilating . . .

These aren't my pants.

His fingers ran over the fabric covering his legs. Soft, thin cotton-blend. Fleece lining the inside, rubbing against his skin. Where were his jeans?

"These aren't my pants," Case said, his breathing slowing down, shuddering, as he regained some kind of focus.

He ran his open palms over the clothes on his body. When he'd gotten dressed that morning – or yesterday morning? He had no clue anymore – he'd put on jeans and a plaid jacket. Why was he wearing sweatpants and a plain T-shirt?

Dizzyingly, Case was hit with the realization that someone had dressed him. Someone had undressed him.

He sat down, head in his hands, on the cold, hard concrete. He wanted to throw up. But there was nothing left in his stomach and he was low on fluids. So instead, he screamed.

For a few moments, he let himself sit with his panic. Let it purge from his system. Like the drugs also running their course.

The man. His face flashed behind Case's eyes, the fear shocking him into a state of eerie calm like the eye of a storm. The man killed Evan and Miles – each one shot, one bullet. The man put him here. And, most likely, he'd be coming back soon to finish what he started.

Okay – you need to get a grip now. You need to get out of here.

Case looked up, reassessing his surroundings with a clearer mind. The ventilation shaft – a large, bulky metal chute that snaked in-and-out of the wall. He got up to take a closer look. Standing at full height, he was eye-level with the vent grates. He ran his hands over the metal, feeling the width. Case's height had always been a sore spot for him – he was barely 5' 8" and 150 pounds of lithe muscle, someone unlikely to ever join the football team or be anything impressive – but now his small size was an asset. He might be able to make the tight squeeze and climb through the ventilation shaft to freedom.

He curled his fingers through the front grate, trying to pry it open. He yanked at the vent until his knuckles turned white. It remained bolted in place. He tried twisting the screws loose. But it was no use. Plus, he now realized, even if he did get the vent open it was too narrow for him to climb through.

"Fuck," he hissed. "Fuck!"

It's okay – try something else.

Case scanned the basement and noticed something he hadn't seen before: a small, square-shaped roller-door, like a metal window behind the bed. He crossed the room – six steps, that's all it took – and pushed up the vertical-sliding door, hoping it would show the outside.

Nothing. There was nothing. Just a stupid recessed metal box. Case slammed his palm against the frame. Slammed it two, three, four times. He suppressed a raw scream, not letting the noise escape his sore throat.

You need to drink something, he thought. remembering the sink. There was a hard plastic cup, like something for a child, already waiting on the side of the basin. As well as a toothbrush, tube of toothpaste and bar of soap. Case pushed the other items out of his mind and forced himself to drink a few cups of water. Rehydrate. Stay focused.

Try the stairs, suggested the rational voice in his head. The scared, emotional part of him replied, I don't want to.

The stairs were the only way out of here – which also meant they were the only way in for the man. What would happen if he did find a way out, only to run into the man who kidnapped him and put him here? Would being caught escaping just give the man an excuse to kill him sooner rather than later?

You have to try.

Case shook his head. "No," he told the voice. "No, not doing it." It wasn't worth the risk.

Hell, a stupid tab of LSD hadn't been worth this fucking risk. That's what had gotten him here. That's what had gotten his two best friends killed. That's what was going to get him killed.

Him and his stupid need to outdo everyone.

No one knew he was here. No one knew Evan and Miles were dead. They'd told their parents they were going camping, to let loose over the Fourth of July weekend. Sure, it wasn't a total lie – they had planned on camping but didn't mention the part about getting high out of their fucking minds under the stars and fireworks. Their road trip was meant to be an adventure. An adventure no one was expecting them to come home from for at least a week.

His friends were dead. He was a prisoner. No one was looking for him.

Case curled back into the corner under the stairs, too racked with self-blame to care how numb it would make his body. He was scared to close his eyes, in case it led to him passing out again and waking up in an even worse situation. But at the same time, he wanted to force them shut, press his hands over his ears and block it all out. That's what he used to do when he was young and woke up from a nightmare, as if it were a ritual to invoke safety.

He wanted to indulge in the childish fantasy that the boogieman couldn't hurt you if you hid under the covers.