The Tunnel Near My House Was Closed For Decades—Last Week I Heard Screaming
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But if you'd prefer to listen without interruptions and support the show directly, start your 7-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium by going to patreon.com/drnosleep. Thank you so much for all your support. It truly means the world. Brandon Fletcher may have only been 14 years old, but he'd seen things. You live in the Hornbach Woods, and there ain't no way you don't see things. Fairy lights at night.

The shadows that don't move even when the moon shifts. That thing with claws that always sleeps by the old white oak log down by Rummy Creek, Mr. Gripple. Even the thought of that haint made Brandon shiver despite the July heat. The woods may have been normally cool and shaded, but even they couldn't withstand the hottest July in history.

or that's what the radio kept saying. "Hottest July in history!" Each DJ would announce right after some heavy sigh or surprised whoop or funny sound effect. Brandon heard a funny sizzle noise just before he lost reception on his little transistor radio. "Hottest July in history." Then, sizzle, static, static, static, dead air. Brandon smacked the black plastic radio over and over, but it produced nothing but a bruise on his right palm.

He flipped the radio over, slid back the battery compartment cover, and frowned down at the corrosion. White crystals struck through with rust were coated around the wires connected to both ports of the 9-volt battery. "God damn it," Brandon muttered as he put the cover back on and jammed the useless radio into his back pocket.

but with the radio silenced, other noises took its place. The noises of Hornbach woods, sure. Birds chirping, squirrels scolding, insects buzzing, all the usual. But behind the usual sounds, slowly creeping past the wilting ferns and the drooping willows, was a different noise. Brandon cocked his head and listened. Like, really listened.

Listened like when daddy was in his cups and he and his older brother had to watch what they said or how they moved in order to avoid a wallop upside the head. Or worse. The noise sounded like someone out there was in trouble. Like they needed help. Now, every warning Brandon's daddy had ever told him reared up in his mind. "Don't follow those fairy lights. You hear old Scratch whispering and you turn tail and run. That howl ain't no wolf and it ain't no man. So stay clear.

"Six toadstools in a row means you die tomorrow." Brandon had never believed the last one, because he'd seen plenty of lines of toadstools six deep and had yet to die. "You hear the screaming. You do nothing. It ain't for you." That last warning was what Brandon focused on. He did hear screaming. Far off, just around the rocks that looked like a giant had laid down to take a nap and never got back up.

Brandon, being fourteen and having seen things, wasn't afraid of a little screaming. The shadows were what scared him silly. But screaming? He had two older brothers. Screaming and yelling and general hollering and whooping were normal. So off he went. Down the hill and around the giant rocks. Out of the woods and across the wildflower meadow. Back into the woods and past the clump of cedars until he came to the source of the screaming: the Helen Tunnel.

The tunnel had been built at least a hundred years before in order to cart the silver from the mines up on the mountain down to the planned refinery. Except, what should have been millions of dollars of silver turned out to be two short veins that petered out before the tracks could even be laid in the tunnel. For folks back then, the tunnel had been a blight on the woods, but some quickly realized that it provided a handy shortcut when you needed to get from Memphis Gap to Eaton Holler.

So despite there being no train tracks anywhere in sight, the tunnel became a thoroughfare through Hornbach Woods. That was until folks started disappearing. Weren't no more than a couple of months before people noticed that sometimes someone would go in from one end and never come out the other. Hell, two people could walk together, chatting about the weather and how their hogs were doing, and only one person would come out of that tunnel.

The other would still gab away and then look to their side and their companion just weren't there no more. Brandon's daddy said that's how he lost his little sister when he was younger than Brandon. They took the shortcut because they knew of a good blackberry patch on the other side, but they never got to those blackberries. Brandon's daddy came out of the tunnel, but his sister didn't. "You stay the hell away from Hell and Tunnel, boys."

Brandon's daddy would snap at them, his finger jabbing as it trembled from the DTs, because daddy had run out of hooch money. Even the moonshiners wouldn't give him a jar on credit no more. With his daddy's words in his head, Brandon walked on until he came to the mouth of the Helen Tunnel. It was all boarded over. The locals were tired of their kin going missing, so they finally got a party together and closed that tunnel up tight.

Except, from what Brandon could hear, it wasn't so tight no more because someone had gotten themselves trapped inside. "Help!" A young boy screamed and screamed, his voice raspy and hoarse. "Hello?" Brandon called out from several yards away. He may have been disregarding his daddy's warning, but he wasn't stupid. Twenty yards was about as close as he was prepared to get. "Hello?" The voice replied. "Is someone out there?" Brandon hesitated, then said,

Yeah, who's that in there? Brandon! The boy shouted. Brandon Fletcher! Any fear or worry evaporated in that July heat like a creamsicle, just dripped away and was gone. Nice try, Derek! Brandon yelled at the tunnel. What? No! The fake Brandon yelled. It's me! It's Brandon! Not Derek or Oliver! Brandon! Brandon!

"Sure it is," Brandon replied and laughed. "Next thing you'll tell me is we put a man on the moon." Sure, President Kennedy had been saying it was what America would do before the decade was out, but it hadn't happened yet. And Brandon's daddy said it would never happen, because going to the moon was like having a third leg. It didn't help you walk, but it did end up costing a lot of money and extra socks. Brandon's daddy had been really drunk when he announced that little tidbit of wisdom.

Daddy said never to go in the tunnel, Brandon yelled. So if you don't want me to tell him, then I get a cold cheer wine from both of you sons of bitches each day for the rest of summer. I ain't Derek or Oliver, the fake Brandon shouted again. I'm Brandon. Brandon shook his head and started to turn away. Who the hell are you? The fake Brandon called from the tunnel. You sound like you know my brothers. Who are you?

"I'm the real Brandon Fletcher!" Brandon called over his shoulder as he walked off. "The one and only, you damn faker!" Brandon ignored the shouts and screams that followed him as he passed the clump of cedars and walked through the warm woods. When he was across the Wildflower Meadow, the screaming had stopped. By the time he got home, which was just over the ridge in Bilson's Cove, Brandon was ready for a cold, cheer wine. But it was Wednesday, so the icebox was empty until Friday.

He'd have to settle for a semi-cold drink from the spring house. "Where you been?" A nasty snarl barked from the shadows as Brandon opened the spring house door. "Jesus Cripes!" Brandon yelled as he jumped a foot and banged his head on the door frame. "I asked you a question." Stephen Fletcher growled as he slid his way up the spring house wall until he stood upright and stared at his youngest son. "Where you been?" Brandon backed up quickly, no longer thirsty for that cold drink of spring water.

He didn't even want to cheer whine no more. All he wanted was to get as far away from his daddy as fast as possible. "I asked you a fucking question, boy!" Steven roared. He lurched toward the spring house door, but his foot caught on something, gravity most likely, and instead of racing at his son, he stumbled and slammed his forehead into the door jamb, splitting the skin instantly.

"Goddamn," he muttered as he put a hand to his head and stared at the red blood it came away covered in. "Ear about brained myself." Brandon took that moment to hightail it away from the spring house. Away from their two-story cabin that Daddy had built with his own hands before Brandon was born, before Mama died giving birth to him. Brandon ran and ran, headed down the cove and toward the wide part of Rummy Creek. When he hit the bank of the creek, Brandon finally slowed.

He fell down on his knees, sinking into the sandy dirt that lined the creek. Then he hung his head and took several deep breaths. He was shaking all over, his heart hammering away inside his chest like he was having a fit or something. But Brandon just knew it was the aftermath from his run-in with his daddy. It was always like that after a close call. Sometimes Brandon preferred the whooping he'd get. That way, he could just take the pain and be done with it.

The running away meant he was never sure which daddy he'd be coming home to later. The daddy who'd forgotten, or the daddy who was lying in wait because he remembered that there was still some punishment to dole out. Not that there was anything to be punished for, except for being in daddy's general vicinity while the man was pissed drunk. "What you doing down here, turd?" Brandon sighed and looked over his shoulder at his older brother, Oliver. Not the oldest, that was Derek.

Oliver was the middle brother, and he made sure that any shit that rolled downhill from Daddy to Derek to him also rolled right on down to Brandon. "Fuck off!" Brandon said and he went to stand up. He'd almost made it when Oliver hurried forward and gave him a hard shove, sending him falling forward into the creek. "You don't say shit like that to me, you fucking turd!" Oliver snarled, a good imitation of Stephen Fletcher. "You show respect to your older brother."

"By a year is all," Brandon replied, hauling himself up out of the creek. "And you're only an inch and a half taller and ten pounds more." Brandon's voice trailed off as he realized what had happened. Slowly, painfully, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his transistor radio. It was dripping wet with creek water, and Brandon's heart fell through his stomach and down through the ground all the way to China.

"Oopsie," Oliver said, and tilted his head back so he could bray that donkey bray he called a laugh. "I saved up for this," Brandon said in a quiet voice. "All my birthday quarters and all those soda bottles I turned into Parker's Grocery for the deposit. Three years I saved." Oliver's bray petered out, and he sniffled a few times before kicking sandy dirt in Brandon's direction.

"Ahh, quit your bitchin'," he said. "It'll dry out." "It won't, and you know it," Brandon said, his voice still quiet. "It's ruined." "Well, then I guess you should start looking for soda bottles again," Oliver said and shrugged. "Because Daddy ain't giving you out no more birthday quarters, not when he can spend them on hooch and shine." The reality of that statement hung between them. "It'll dry out," Oliver said again, but without any conviction or belief in his voice.

Then he turned and hiked up the trail, headed toward home. That's your money saying it's time for a McDonald's run. Because with new McValue at McDonald's, you get more than you expect. Like buy a six-piece McNuggets and add a McChicken for just a dollar. Your money says let's go. Get more than you expect with new McValue. Prices and participation may vary. Valid for item of equal or lesser value.

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After waiting a few minutes, just to make sure Oliver wasn't gonna pull nothing, Brandon trudged out of the creek and plopped himself back down in the sandy dirt. His soggy radio clutched in his hands. It hurt like hell staring at the ruined radio. But after a while, Brandon came to terms with the loss. It wasn't like he had money for a new 9-volt battery anyway. An hour ticked by, then two. When the sun was down behind the trees lining the far side of the creek,

Brandon hauled himself up out of the sandy dirt, wiped off the butt of his jeans, tucked the dead radio into his back pocket again, and then slowly made his way up the trail. He didn't want to go home and face his daddy or Oliver, but his stomach was rumbling, and while they didn't have much to eat, not much was better than nothing. To Brandon's surprise, he was met with the smell of cooking meat when he stepped from the trees and approached the Fletcher cabin.

And from the mouth-watering aroma that surrounded the cabin, Brandon knew it wasn't possum or coon or squirrel. It didn't even smell like rabbit. Brandon rounded the cabin and stopped, stunned at what he saw. His older brother Derek was slowly rotating a small pig on a spit over a large bank of coals. "There you are," Derek said and nodded at the spit. "Come take a turn. My shoulder's about to fall right off." Brandon rushed right over, his ruined radio all but forgotten.

"Where'd this come from?" Brandon asked. "Around," Derek said and stepped away from the pig as Brandon took his place. "You stole it?" Brandon asked, gripping the spit's handle so he could keep the even rotations going without a pause. "I've borrowed it permanently," Derek said, settling onto an upturned half-barrel midway between the fire pit and back porch. "He stole it," Oliver said as he came out of the cabin, sipping on a grape knee-high soda.

"And where the hell did you get that?" Brandon asked. "Around," Oliver said with a sneer. "Bunch of lousy thieves." Stephen Fletcher growled as he came staggering around the side of the cabin, hitching his breeches up after a trip to the outhouse. "I should call the sheriff on y'all." Derek, who was nearly eighteen and almost three inches taller than Daddy, rolled his eyes. "I saw that, you little shit," Stephen said. Then he pointed at Oliver. "Gimme that,

Oliver only hesitated for a second, then he held out the half-drunk soda. Stephen took it and downed it in one swallow. Then he threw the bottle at the fire pit, missing spectacularly. "There you go, Brandon," Oliver said. "Your first bottle for the radio fund."

"What's that?" Stephen Fletcher asked, looking from one boy to the other. "What fund? You holding out on me, boys? Best not be. I'm the breadwinner in this family, and what you make is mine." "That's not what it means to be a breadwinner," Derek muttered under his breath.

"Oliver pushed me into the creek and ruined my transistor radio," Brandon said, then regretted the words the second they slipped past his lips. "That so?" Stephen said, his voice suddenly all high and lilting. "Did the little homo's radio get all wet? Huh, you little homo? Is that what happened?" He held out his hand. "Let me see it." Brandon hesitated.

"If I have to count to three, boy, then you better be out of my sight before I hit two," Stephen snapped, his face turning red as his rage began to grow. Brandon knew that he'd screwed up. He should have pulled out the radio immediately. The hesitation was his undoing. "Here," Brandon said, and handed the radio over to his daddy. Stephen snatched it from Brandon's grip and turned it over and over in his hands.

"Well, I see the problem right here," he said and motioned at Brandon. "Come here, boy. I'll show you." "He's turning the pig," Derek said, getting up from the half barrel. "Oliver will do that," Stephen said. Oliver's mouth opened in protest, but closed just as fast. He slow shuffled toward the pit. "Move your goddamn ass, boy!" Stephen yelled, and Oliver double-timed, shoving Brandon out of the way so he could grip the spit's handle.

Brandon looked at Derek, but there was no salvation there. Derek gave him a sad look, then turned his head away. Right here, Stephen said, and pointed to a spot in front of him. Now, Brandon obeyed and moved to the spot indicated. See this, Stephen said, holding out the radio. Do you see the problem? Brandon looked and looked, but saw nothing. No, he said and shook his head.

"Let me help you," Stephen said, just as he swung the radio up so fast that his arm was nothing but a blur. The black plastic smashed into Brandon's face and his head rocked back, but Stephen Fletcher was an old pro at dragging out pain and punishment. Before Brandon could stumble a step back, Stephen's free hand snatched the boy's shirt front and yanked him close. He came in from the side with the radio before Brandon could even register the bright pain pulsing from his broken nose.

Brandon's left ear exploded with agony as the radio smashed into it. Not once, but five full times. Collapsing to the ground, with blood pouring out of his nose and his ear, plus the various slashes on his cheek and jaw from the radio's shattered case. Brandon tried to get his arms up in time to protect himself, but he was too slow.

The kicks came swiftly, one after the other. Into his ribs, his side, his back, his hips, his chest, and finally his head when he fell over sideways. Unable to hold himself up anymore, Brandon heard Derek shouting, and then it all went black. It'd be three days before Brandon could walk outside without help from one of his brothers. It was a full week when he could chew food again without crying. "Gotta learn," Stephen Fletcher said as Brandon took ginger steps down off the back porch.

"Yes, sir," Brandon said as he walked past the fire pit and toward the woods. "Where you think you're going?" Stephen shouted. Brandon didn't respond. He just kept on walking. "You ain't gonna get far, you fuckin' homo!" Stephen shouted, not bothered enough to stand up and give chase. He let his words dole out the pain instead of his fists. "Useless like your mama!" That one stung, but Brandon still didn't respond.

He kept walking, letting his feet guide him, totally not caring where he was going or where he'd end up. After an hour of wandering, Brandon found himself standing in front of the Helen Tunnel, his eyes studying the old boards that sealed off the entrance from the ground up. "Hello?" Brandon called. "Hello!" The fake Brandon's voice replied. "Who's there? Help me!"

"Why?" Brandon asked. "Why should I? You're better off in there." "What? No!" The fake Brandon replied. "Get me out of here! It was all a mistake, a big mistake! I want to go home!" "No you don't," Brandon said, and turned and leaned his back against the boards. He slid to the ground, wincing as a sliver slipped through his t-shirt and embedded itself in his back, but he didn't remove it, even as a small trickle of blood slipped down his spine.

Listen, please, the fake Brandon said. I don't know how long I've been in here, but I don't want to be anymore. I wanted to get away. I wanted to hide. But this isn't better. I want to get away. I want to hide, Brandon replied. No, you don't, the fake Brandon yelled. It's not right in here. There are things they cry and sob, and there is something else.

Do things hit you and kick you and call you homo? Brandon asked, his head in his hands. No, but they... Then shut the fuck up and quit whining! Brandon interrupted. You're better off in there! No! Why aren't you listening to me? The fake Brandon wailed. Please get me out of here! Brandon sat there as the fake Brandon yelled and pleaded and cajoled. Then he came to a conclusion. Sure, he said and slowly stood up.

His legs had fallen asleep, and he had to brace himself on the boards while he shook out his left leg, then his right, frowning at the pins and needles that shot up and down his limbs. "I'll get you out," there was no response. "You could be a little more grateful," Brandon muttered, still no response. "Fine, I don't care," he said and walked away from the tunnel. "I'll be back tomorrow with tools." He didn't wait to see if that would get a response, just made his way from the tunnel and back toward home.

The next morning, the sun had barely risen when Brandon got himself up and went to the sagging tool shed out back. "What's going on, B?" Derek asked, startling Brandon so he dropped the pry bar he'd taken from the shed. And that wasn't all he had. "You going camping?" Brandon bent down and picked up the pry bar. Then he picked up his knapsack and thinnest tissue paper sleeping bag, a remnant from his daddy's time in the Korean War.

"I'm leaving," Brandon said, avoiding his brother's gaze. "We're good. Are you now?" Derek asked. He sounded a little too much like Daddy for Brandon's taste, so he shoved the pry bar up under his older brother's nose and snarled. "Don't you even try to stop me. I'm done with this goddamn place. I hear you, I do," Derek said, and slowly pushed the end of the pry bar out of his face. "But where are you gonna go?"

a place brandon said somewhere daddy won't look i'll lay low until he forgets all about me then i'll head west west my west derek asked brandon shrugged i hear california is nice all the girls are the best and their son and surfing and derek's sudden laugh cut brandon off and he scowled at his brother what

Brandon snapped. "You think California is just exactly like a Beach Boys song?" Derek asked, wiping tears from his eyes as he continued laughing. "You ever read Grapes of Wrath? It'll be more like that for a dumb kid like you. Sad and lonely and full of misery. You won't last a week before you having to do things for old men just to get food money."

what does that mean brandon responded if you have to ask then you definitely won't survive out there derek said then moved out of brandon's way but if you want to go then just go i am brandon said and stomped off good derek said see you in a week little brother not hardly brandon yelled back over his shoulder then he was swallowed up by the shadows of the hornbach woods

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When he reached the tunnel, Brandon swung the pry bar loosely in his grip while he studied the old boards in front of him. He yelled. There was no answer. He held up the pry bar like he was wielding a sword.

"If I let you come out, and you come at me like some mutant cannibal, just know I won't even hesitate to brain you," he said, shaking the pry bar at the boards. "I'll crush your skull so fast you won't have time to cry for your mama." He was met with only silence. Brandon took off his knapsack and set it and his sleeping bag down on the ground a few feet from the tunnel.

Then he went to the board he thought looked the weakest and jammed the pry bar up under it. He may have been 14, but he hadn't started putting on muscle like his two older brothers had at that age. It was probably why his daddy called him homo all the time and made fun of his scrawny arms and legs. Well, there wasn't gonna be any more of that crap no more. No, Brandon would open up the tunnel and let the weirdo out, even though Brandon doubted the kid was trapped in there.

If you could get in, you could get out. Then he'd take the kid's place and lay low like he told Derek he would. Eventually, blisters appeared on Brandon's palms as he struggled to get the boards free. But after an hour of trying, he managed to pop off enough boards that there was a Brandon-sized gap staring at him. Setting the pry bar down, he went to his knapsack and opened the top flap. He pulled out his daddy's old army canteen and took a swig of spring water.

Then he capped it, wiped his mouth, and pulled out the one thing he knew his daddy would lose his shit over once he found it missing. Their only flashlight. Brandon shone the light in through the gap, studying the dank, dark space inside the tunnel. It looked like it went on for miles and miles, even though he knew the other end was less than half a mile away. That end had been boarded up too, of course, but Brandon had never seen it.

It was too much of a climb to get up over the mountain to the other side. And town was the opposite way, so there was not much call to go that direction anyway. "Hello?" Brandon shouted again. He swung the flashlight to the left, then to the right. Then he stopped as he saw something on the ground against the tunnel wall. "What is that?" he muttered. He went back and got his knapsack and sleeping bag. Then he picked up the pry bar and stepped back to the opening he'd made.

Brandon flashed the light into the tunnel once more, then tossed his knapsack, the pry bar, and sleeping bag through. He hooked a leg up over the lower board framing the gap so he could squeeze through and into the tunnel. Once on the other side, he picked up his knapsack and sleeping bag and walked over to the wall of the tunnel. "I don't understand," was all he could say as he aimed the flashlight down on the pile of stuff on the ground. A knapsack and a sleeping bag.

exactly like the ones he held in his arms. The sleeping bag even had that puke stain from Oliver when he ate too many wine berries last summer. And the knapsack had that frayed left strap. A hunk of metal glinted in the light and Brandon bent down. He pulled a dented flashlight out from under the knapsack. Its lens was busted and so was the bulb. Brandon shook his head and dropped the broken flashlight. He studied the knapsack and the sleeping bag again.

They both looked exactly like his, and he couldn't figure out how or why. Then he saw that there was no pry bar anywhere. Brandon realized he hadn't picked that up. He spun around and shone the light all over the ground. The pry bar wasn't anywhere, even though Brandon knew he tossed it into the tunnel. It was heavy as hell, so he couldn't have gone far. Brandon set his knapsack and sleeping bag down a few feet from the ones that were already there.

Then he spent the next few minutes scouring the ground around the tunnel's entrance. No pry bar. "Well shit," he said and shook his head. He was tired and thirsty and hungry. He had a little bit of old, dried cornbread in his knapsack. So he turned and went to fetch it. Then he saw that there was only one set of knapsacks and sleeping bags. The set that had been sitting there before was gone. Only his set that he'd brought was left. A scraping sound behind him caused him to whirl around.

He spun too fast and smacked the front of the flashlight into a board that was sticking out at a bad angle. The flashlight's lens and bulb both cracked, plunging Brandon into darkness. But how could that be? Light should have been coming through the gap he'd made. Tossing the broken flashlight aside, Brandon rushed forward with his hands out until he smacked his palms into the boards. He felt back and forth, up and down, but there was no gap.

The entrance was sealed tight. "Hello!" he shouted and pounded his fists against the boards until he felt warm blood trickle down his wrists and forearms from all the splinters he was jamming into his skin. "Hello!" Brandon shouted and shouted until his voice was nothing more than a hoarse rasp. Finally, exhausted and terrified, Brandon stumbled his way in the pitch dark over to the tunnel wall. He got on his hands and knees and crawled around until he found his knapsack.

Once he found it, he yanked out the canteen and drank until his raw throat was soothed. Then he curled up in a ball and lay there until he fell asleep. The next morning, or what he guessed might be morning since he thought he could hear birds chirping from outside, Brandon got up and started the pounding and yelling all over again. But no one responded. No one came to help him.

After what felt like days, weeks, months, years, Brandon gave up all hope and laid down in front of the entrance, his knees tucked up to his chin. He cried and cried, and he wasn't the only one. He heard other sobs, other cries and whimpers in the dark, but something told him not to interact.

Maybe it was all the warnings his daddy had given him over the years. Maybe it was just common sense that if you hear crying in a pitch-dark tunnel, you don't call attention to yourself. More time went by, and Brandon felt like he was wasting away into nothing. A thin voice said close to Brandon's ear. He jumped and scrambled away on his hands and knees. "You'll get out," the voice said again. "You always do. You're the lucky one who ain't so lucky."

Then there was a high cackle, and Brandon felt something slither by him, its skin clammy and cold as it barely brushed one elbow. "But you'll always be here too!" the voice called from far off down the tunnel. "Always here in your pain!" Brandon got up and started pounding on the boards. He shouted and shouted, screamed and screamed, ignoring the pain in his throat. He cried. "Hello?" Brandon froze. Someone was out there on the other side.

It sounded like a young boy his age. "Hello?" Brandon replied. "Is someone out there?" There was a pause then. "Yeah, who's that in there?" "Brandon!" Brandon shouted. "Brandon Fletcher!" "Nice try, Derek!" came the response. "What? No!" Brandon yelled. "It's me! It's Brandon! Not Derek or Oliver! Brandon!"

"Sure it is," the other boy replied and laughed. "Texting you'll tell me as we put a man on the moon!" Then it hit Brandon. He was talking to himself. That was him out there, from before. And right then, he knew that he would get out, but that he'd always be trapped inside too. Inside a nightmare that hadn't started in Helen Tunnel or in Hornbach Woods, but had already started when he was born and his mama had died.

But you'll always be here too, the words from the slithering thing echoed in his head. Daddy said to never go in the tunnel, the outside Brandon yelled. So if you don't want me to tell him, then I get a cold cheer wine from both of you sons of bitches each day for the rest of summer. Brandon took a deep breath and started the cycle again, knowing he'd eventually get out somehow, but unsure of when all of it would end, or if it ever would.

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