No. Not that.

It wasn't that.

Cautiously, very slowly, she began working her right hand from underneath her. It had gone to sleep, the pins and needles sharp, the sensation as creepy as it always was. She kept her hand alongside her hip and flexed the fingers slowly as the blood returned to them. It made her want to cry or giggle. She worked her left hand free and flexed it as well.

Refusing to admit why she did it, she slid her hands to the tops of her thighs, then up her body, not reaching out, not reaching up naturally. She slid them up herself until she touched the blindfold covering her eyes.

She heard her breath catch in a little sob.

No. It wasn't that.

Because she was a good girl.

She pushed the cloth up her forehead, keeping her eyes closed. She drew a deep breath, trying not to think about how much more stale and thick the air seemed to be.

Finally, she opened her eyes.

Blackness. A dark so total it had weight, substance.

She blinked, turned her head back and forth, but saw nothing more. Just… black.

In the tiniest corner of her mind, that little girl whimpered.

Slowly, fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, she pushed her hands outward. Her arms were still bent at the elbows when her hands touched something solid. It felt like… wood. She pushed against it. Hard. Harder.

It didn't give at all.

She tried not to panic, but by the time her hands had explored the box in which she lay, the scream was crawling around in the back of her throat. And when the little girl crouching in the tiniest corner of her mind whispered the truth, the scream escaped.

He's buried you alive.

And nobody knows where you are.