The other night when my memory fully returned I decided to tour my environs in a more methodical manner. I waited until all of my co-contestants—my fellow prisoners—were fast asleep in their simple little rooms. The lights, during those late night hours, burned at half-intensity. The lounge and corridors took on a cozy quality. A young man, whose name I didn’t know, was available to us if anything unusual came up. Sort of an orderly, I guess, with basic medical skills. He spent most of his shift lounging on a sofa in the nurse’s office reading or napping.

I carried with me a half-eaten apple so it appeared I had innocently got out of bed to enjoy a midnight snack. It proved unnecessary. No one noticed me.

It only took me a several minutes of canvasing my prison to learn that there were only three locked doors—well, other than those two metal portals down the corridor marked arrivals. The one for the stairwell that led up to the studio. Then there was one at the far end of the lounge through which I’d been able to catch a glance a time or two. It opened onto a lobby where I had seen a pair of polished steel elevator doors. And finally there was a door just past the wardrobe department that appeared to lead into a corridor of office suites.

All of the doors were fitted with the same model Hammett-Glaze mortise locks. I’d gotten past such locks before, but only using my own pick set. Possibly I could scrounge around and fashion something that might work. The doors themselves were heavy slabs of solid oak. Except the double doors that led up to the studio. Those were cheap hollow core construction, usually used on closets. It’d be noisy to break through them. I also noticed that the hinge pins were accessible. I could get a butter knife and a can of Spam from the kitchen and knock them free in two minutes, tops. But, again, it’s not quiet work.

If I could chose, it would, or course be the door to the elevators.

The talk I’d heard about a woman jumping out a window to her death suggested we were on an upper floor of a tall building. Early on, I had been under the impression we were deep underground. Maybe because of the whole afterlife conceit of the TV show. As well as the lack of visible sunlight.

So, an elevator was what I wanted. Or stairs—going down.

My earlier thought that maybe we were back in time—that damn candy bar Silverio Moreno was eating—no longer had the slightest sway over me. Everything about the place fit solidly into a 21st century office building. Drop ceiling acoustical tiles. Fluorescent lights. Vents for an HVAC system. Standard American electrical outlets.

Nothing out of the ordinary about the place. Well, except those arrival pods. And me—a dead man.

The air vents were too small to consider as escape options. And though the ceiling tiles above would in no way support my weight, I decided to see if the inner walls of the offices and corridors went all the way to the true ceiling. In most tall modern office buildings the inner walls do not support the structure.

I hopped up on the long table where they laid out our daily breakfast buffet and gave myself some added height by standing on a plastic chair with tubular legs. With slow and soft movements I pushed up one of the white fiber tiles and slid it aside. Directly above I saw a heavy iron pipe. I gripped it tight and raised myself up until my head and shoulders were in the dark cavity above the ceiling of the lounge.

I found nothing of note. The dead space was about three feet high with enough ambient light from the gaps in the fluorescent fixtures. And, yes, the walls did indeed go all the way up.

Yet I lingered. My feet dangled above the buffet table as I supported myself by my strength alone. The sensation was marvelous! I pulled myself up another inch. Two. I did a series of pull ups, amazed at my physical strength. It was a far cry from those last weeks in the hospital when I could barely lift a spoon to my mouth. And I wondered, had I ever been so strong? Even in my youth? So…vibrant?

As I hung there, I wondered what I should do now that I had been given a wholly unexpected second chance at life?

Well, first I had to get out of this place.

I needed a plan.

I replaced the tile, put the chair back at a table, and returned to my room. Maybe a good night’s sleep would clear my mind even more.

###

I had made a decision to avoid the drugged food they served us in the hopes that my senses would become sharper. I had learned it was easy enough to grab fruit and chocolate bars from the kitchen throughout the day, so that would do to keep my strength up, at least for the immediate future. But I didn’t want to arouse suspicion, so the following day I headed to the lounge along with the rest of the group for our daily scheduled breakfast.

The line moved at a slow shuffle as we filed into the kitchen, were given our trays, our food, and then each of us made his or her way to a table. Today I chose a suitable dining companion, a large muddle-headed man who usually sat by himself. He barely noticed as I periodically added my food—discreet spoonful at a time—to his plate, until he had finished his breakfast as well as mine.

When it occurred to me—back before my memory returned—that the meals were drugged, I accepted it. Looked forward, even, enjoying the languid subtle stupor.

After depositing my tray and empty plate on the shelf outside the door the kitchen, I walked over to a sofa where Rose sat holding a clipboard. When I sat in a chair beside her, she looked up from filling out some sort of form.

“I think I’m here because I died,” I said to her.

She looked up. Seeing who it was, she put the cap on her pen and tucked it behind her ear.

“That’s quite a thing to say. Does this mean your memory is coming back?”

I was curious how she might respond to such a confession. There was curiosity in her face, along with something else I couldn’t immediately place.

“There are some things I remember,” I lied—because I now remembered everything. “Every day, I seem to remember more. And I distinctly have this image of myself in a hospital room. That’s the last memory. Well, before here.”

“But things are still cloudy?”

“Yes. But I have this strong impression I was very sick. Terminally ill.”

“I’m wondering,” she said slowly, measuring her words, “that time between the hospital bed and waking up in our arrival room, any memories from that time? Impressions?”

Curiosity and fear. That was it. Curious about my experiences. And fearful of me. She was afraid of me. She hadn’t been like this around me—guarded, cautious—back before my memory had returned.

Could it be that her change in attitude—her new behavior toward me—was connected to the return of my memory? I must admit that I now had vivid recollection of so many things I had done in the course of my life she would no doubt find unsavory, or even terrifying.

Of course, I had to take a moment to process my new line of reasoning. Did that mean I now believed that psychic powers were possible? I suppose I had to at least give consideration to that possibility, taking into account I now believed I had been resurrected from the dead.

Of all the things that I currently found troubling and concerning—death, rebirth, the passing of moral judgement—she wanted to know about something relatively inconsequential. My journey through that limbo separating death from life anew.

Her curiosity on metaphysical matters held no interest to me. Besides, there was still a gap in my memory, and even if I had wanted to, I could not have answered her question. Maybe one day I would ponder that time I had spent between the then and the now.

Before I could think of a suitably vague reply, I saw one of those locked doors open. The door with the elevators on the other side. Dr. Hetzel entered along with Michael trailing behind. Michael spotted Rose and said something to the doctor before heading over to us.

“I have to think that August is your favorite,” he said to Rose. “You’re going to make the rest of the contestants jealous.”

Rose managed a smile. It was clear she didn’t care for Michael.

“I thought I might go across the street to the new coffee place,” he said to her. “Want to come along?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Busy day for me.”

“It must be nice,” I said quietly. “Just to be able to go through that door out into the world. Enjoy a cup of coffee.”

I had planned to keep a low profile as I put together my plan of escape. But time was important if I wanted to avoid eventually being chosen to play that idiotic game show. I wanted to see what might slip out if I threw these people off balance.

And my words indeed did have that effect on the both of them, especially Michael.

His eyes widen in confusion. Then he smiled with wonderment as if watching a dog who had begun to walk about on its hind legs. Without taking his eyes from me he lowered himself into the sofa beside Rose.

“Don’t worry,” Michael said to me in a decidedly smug and patronizing tone. “You’ll get out soon. Every day your chances increase.”

Was there a hint of a threat?

I was about to set Michael straight on embracing a common fallacy concerning statistics, but before I could open my mouth, Rose spoke. Also concerning statistics, but from another angle.

“That’s funny,” Rose said to Michael. “I’ve also been thinking about chance, and its relationship to the length of our contestants’ tenure here.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael asked.

“I was going through the records.” She flipped to a page at the back of her clipboard and tapped at some equations I couldn’t quite make out from where I was seated. “We’ve been on the air for 423 shows. That’s 846 contestants who have been chosen. The longest anyone has spent waiting, from arrival to departure pod, has been seventeen days. Doesn’t that seem—”

“Statistically unlikely?” I asked, looking at Rose. “Extremely, so. Of course, I assume the game’s rigged. Isn’t that in keeping with the entertainment industry?”

Michael looked at me as if for the first time.

“I’d think the real question is,” I continued, “why are contestants not allowed to linger?”

I saw Ida from the corner of my eye as she crossed the processing lounge.

“Perhaps we should ask her,” I said, pointing. It was my attempt to sow some seeds of disharmony.

My words didn’t give me the results I expected. Michael stood up with the fervor and alacrity of a puppy spotting his master.

“Oh,” he said, immediately forgetting about me. “I have to go talk to Ida about some new marketing ideas I have.”

As Michael turned to head off, my hand shot out, dipped into his trouser pocket. My speed and dexterity even impressed myself. No one noticed as I pulled out his key and unhooked it from the clip on his belt loop. I transferred the key to my own pocket as Rose watched Michael walk away.

Michael always followed in the wake of someone else. Some superior whose favor he was currying. I gambled on two things. One, when Michael realized he no longer had his key, he would not remember when he last used it. Two, Michael would not admit to having lost something so important—probably he would himself steal a replacement, no doubt from an inconsequential underling.

“I’m sorry,” Rose said to me. “Michael’s something of a—”

“Buffoon?”

She laughed. Then she said something about having a busy schedule and excused herself.

423 shows. That was a new piece of information. Was it useful? I had no idea. But it hardly mattered now, I thought, resting a finger on the outside of my pocket feeling the outline of the key.