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“I know you will.” She leaves my bedroom door open.

Downstairs, the front door closes. One deadbolt turns. Then the second. Then the third.

The first thing I do with freedom is wait to be caught. I stand in the hallway listening until Heather’s car is gone. Then I wait for it to come back.

Maybe she forgot her phone. Maybe she’ll open the front door, climb the stairs and find me outside my room before I’ve decided what I’m allowed to do with myself.

Nothing happens. Heather is gone.

I stand there longer than necessary, occupying all the empty space between our rooms while Oliver stays wherever Heather left him. Then I go downstairs.

The house sounds different without her. The refrigerator hums. The heat comes on. Something settles inside one of the walls.

I’ve been alone here before, but always unconscious and locked away. This is the first time Heather left me capable of choosing where I wait.

The living room is mine if I want it. So is the kitchen. I could sit in Heather’s chair at the table or lie across the couch with my boots on.

The front door is six steps away. I count them.

I stop close enough to reach the handle.

Three deadbolts hold it shut. Heather has the keys. I know that. I could still touch the locks. Search the drawers and her office for a spare. Do something that proves leaving my bedroom unlocked was a mistake.

My hand lifts.

You’ll prove I was wrong about you.

I lower it.

The kitchen is behind me.

I open the refrigerator and cold air moves over my face. A can of soda sits on the second shelf. The tab is sealed, the first thing I’ve had since arriving that Heather hasn’t opened, poured or medicated.

For once, I’ll know exactly what I’m drinking.

The cabinet beside the sink holds plates. The next holds glasses. In the third, I find the cookies Heather put me to sleep to go buy on my first day here.

I pull down the package.

Nobody tells me how many.

I take two anyway. I close the plastic lid before I realize what I’ve done. Two is Heather’s number. Two cookies placed neatly on a plate after lunch. Two because she takes care of me. Two because more would be unnecessary.

I put the container back. Then I stare at it. I walked six steps from the front door and chose the kitchen.

I’ve earned a third fucking cookie. I take a third cookie and bite into it while facing the empty doorway. It’s only a cookie. It feels fucking glorious. Some part of me expects Heather to appear and take it from my mouth. When she doesn’t, I’m almost disappointed.

I arrange the other two on a plate because carrying them in my hands would make crumbs. I take my soda and turn toward the table.

I could sit in Heather’s chair. I could go into the playroom and rearrange one of the tiny rooms just enough to see whether Heather notices. The idea keeps me still for a second. Then I look toward the stairs.

Oliver knows I’m out. He must have heard me walk downstairs while his lock kept him exactly where Heather left him.

I want him to hear me come back too. I pass the front door without touching it and carry my food upstairs.

At Oliver’s room, I sit against the wall beside the frame. The plate rests on the floor near my thigh. The cold soda dampens my palm. I pull the tab.

Oliver moves on the other side. “Are you going to try the door?”