The only things Father did in moderation, William had hoped he would do more of. Feeding, bathing, talking, letting him out of the room.

"You know, not much to ask." He thought.

William began pacing the room, rubbing his arms for warmth.

"You know, something doesn't make sense to me." He said.

"What about?" Asked Paris.

"About him letting me out. I mean, my door was left open. Just like that, open with no one to stop me."

"And it's not like he would do that accidentally." Said Paris.

"Why, though? After all this time..." said William, trying his best to understand.

"I think what matters now is that you're out of that room. Maybe the why isn't important - not until we're out of this completely, at least." She said.

"He killed a little girl," he said, stopping his pace and looking at her, "I saw her, lying in bed. In the same kind of room."

After a long and somber quiet, William continued. "He let me in there. He wanted me to see her. I just need to know-"

William paused and stood still at the sound of footsteps outside the girl's door. She stared at the door and then back at him. She made a gesture with her hands. He knew what she meant.

"There's nowhere to hide."

He walked softly over to the door. As it began to open, he stepped back with the door until he was sandwiched between it and the wall. Just enough to cover him up behind it, William listened in as Paris spoke.

"Hi Father," she said.

"C'mon. It's time for your bath."

There was a hesitation. An air of depression and ill intent filled the room. It swirled around like a guilt-ridden tornado for William, helpless and glued to the wall in hiding. He listened as the man led her out into the hall. The man's fingers appeared before William as they wrapped tightly around the door. They disappeared soon after, exiting the room with Paris.

He slid down the wall and sat. After so many years with the same person, their hands and voice become unmistakable. It became eerily clear - the man who took Paris wasn't Father. Not the Father that William knew.

"Another Father?"

He wondered if he should wait for her. Would she come back? Was it smart to stay there? He wondered if he could have helped. He thought about how stupid he was for leaving the nail behind. He stood up and pulled gently on the door. The faintest squeaks in a place made of empty hallways would be like an amplifier turned up to max. The door moved, much to William's relief.

"No reason to lock an empty room." He thought.

He pulled more, just enough to allow him to pass through. It was another hallway leading left and right. William stood in the hallway, darting back and forth between the two paths and the lantern that hung between them. His body started to ache at the thought of what either direction could lead him to. He grabbed his welted leg with his hand, feeling the torn scab through his pants. As he felt up his leg, he heard a light crunch from his pocket.

Confused, he reached in and felt a familiar texture under his fingertips. It was so comforting to feel it in that moment of anxiety. It was the maple leaf. He pulled it out with his right hand and observed the small amount of it that had been torn off. He couldn't remember putting it in his pocket but there it was, plain as day. A little worse for wear it seemed, though none worse than its owner.

"Let's try right." He thought.

Nearly forgetting, he walked back to close the door. He had to leave no trace of his being there behind. The door was quiet until it reached the frame. It let out a creak, and it threw his stomach into his throat. Surely, someone had heard it. He pulled it the rest of the way and looked around him wide-eyed, expecting Father to grab his neck or those broomsticks to start clacking.

"It's okay. It's fine. There's no one."

When nothing but the burning crackle of the lantern reached his ears, he began walking into the hallway, headed right. It was like Deja Vu to him as he left the room into the hallway. Only this time, William felt much further from escape. He had no nail, and he was even more beaten down. He'd never experienced death before, not beyond the thought of it, and it made his skin crawl. He was well aware of it before, but it was never a clear picture.

Death affected him little in the way of provoking tears back in his room. Thoughts of suicide occurred to William before, yet it had a thick aura of mystery about it. He knew that if he were to die, there would be no one to miss him. If someone else were to die, who were they? He had no one to care for, so what would another's death even mean to him? He had no experience in loss - in truly losing someone he loved. Would Father hurt if William died? Would William care at all if Father did?

William viewed the act of living as enough to reward him with starvation and trembling hands. He knew that that continuing to live was celebrated with open wounds from a cutting wire. Yet he could never decide on the reward for death. Was it only to end the pain? Was it the one true way to escape? Though, after the girl beneath the sheets gave her own life to help him, he wasn't sure. After meeting a kind soul in Paris, living seemed, for the first time, necessary.

The hallway was tall and a bit more inviting than the ones prior. It was like the builder of that place was learning as he went, becoming more competent in their work. The smell of wet copper was now a stale and dusty air with a dash of freshly cleaned cotton. It was cold but the air had a weight to it and tiny dewdrops had formed along the brick. William's stomach yearned for food and drink. He hadn't eaten nor had he consumed any water in a while. The starvation felt like the broomsticks being "tik-tik-clacked' from the inside of his stomach. The thirst was like that waste pump, sucking any moisture out of his mouth and throat until the only things left were cracked lips and a dry throat.

William, in desperation and with waning regard for pride, pressed his body against the wall. He held his face against the bricks and began to suck in the moisture. The tiny dewdrops touched his lips and like a dehydrated sponge, they absorbed any moisture they came across. He stuck his tongue out, trying to lick off the water. He imagined he probably looked ridiculous. He had never been intimate with anyone before, and he didn't imagine his first time would be with a wet wall. In the midst of being held hostage in the darkest, most desolate place there was, it was as good a time as any for some practice. He nearly laughed at the thought as a small grin manifested at both ends of his mouth.

There was hardly any satisfaction. It was like being able to smell your steak but not being allowed to eat it. His mind became occupied with a multitude of thoughts and desires. He finally managed to escape the inescapable room only to be faced with dehydration. He needed to find Paris. He needed to find something for the pain in his leg. He needed to find water. But William knew that, unless he found a friendly doctor, he was going without most of it. He fought through the pain and the hunger and the thirst, staying against the wall and moving on ahead.

After a while, passing nothing but some closets, he noticed the smell of clean cotton had become more pronounced. The air was dense. He thought he heard the sound of rain in the distance. The sweet sound of droplets pitter-pattering on the ground. He heard that sound on many occasions in his room. It proved calming and even sleep-inducing to him.

It reminded him of the times when he was allowed to shower. It would be in a cramped space, no larger than the closets he had passed earlier. The feeling of warm water running down his skin always felt so wonderful. It was like everything sick and wrong with the world and in his mind would wash away for three minutes and he'd walk out of it as a new man. William paused in the hall. He listened closely to the soft dripping sounds ahead. He took a heavy breath of steamy air into his lungs, nearly making him cough.

"It's not rain," he thought, "it's a shower."