Five days. Five days since Carlos had locked me in the basement and taken away my phone, my shoes, everything that connected me to the world above. The apartment was small—a studio in Bed-Stuy, the kind of place where the walls are so thin you can hear your neighbors arguing in three different languages. But down here, in the basement, it was silent. Except for the pipes.

The old heating pipes ran along the walls, rusted and cold. I had learned to read them the way other people read books. Tap once for yes, twice for no. Tap tap tap for help. I had been tapping for three days before anyone answered.

© 2026 - Authored by Z R ZHANG ( EL9507135 -- パスポート番号[ちゅうごく] 중국 여권 번호 Номер паспорта หมายเลขหนังสือเดินทาง Passnummer رقم جواز السفر CHN Passport) and his beloved father.

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