Prologue
In her own bedroom, she has a night light shaped like a star.
It turns off when she is sleeping, because she doesn’t need it to stay on all night.
Only when her eyes are still open. It’s not really the dark that she’s afraid of, anyway.
It’s not being able to see where all that darkness ends.
Her teacher said the stars don’t actually go away; it’s just that sometimes the sun makes it too bright to see them. And when you can’t see the sun anymore, that’s not because it’s gone, either. You’ve just been spun away from the light.
There are no suns in this room. Unless you count the three blue ones scribbled on the wall. She saw them when he first brought her here. Back when there was still a little light. Now there’s not even a crack under the door.
Who drew those suns? Was it the girl she can hear through the wall?
The one who’s been singing the same song over and over?
That girl sounds too grown up to draw blue crayon suns on somebody’s wallpaper, but maybe those scribbles have been here for a long time already.
Like she has.
She likes being sung to when she can’t sleep. But not by the girl on the other side of the wall. Because that’s not the right song. This is not the right room, or the right bed.
She is not supposed to be here. She’s been spun around and around.
And now she can’t see anything at all.
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AMITY
CHAPTER ONE
NEW YORK, MAY 2015
RUTH-ANN BAKER IS HAVING AN UNREMARKABLE DAY.
For the twenty-six-year-old New Yorker, unremarkable looks something like this . . .
She gets out of bed before 10 am. She does not worry excessively about her dog, Ressler, dying (she just worries a small, helpful amount). She does a quick tidy-up of her apartment and eats the right food at the right times. A bagel for breakfast, a salad sandwich for lunch. She drinks three coffees, none of which make her overly jittery, and she does not grab at her stomach when looking in the mirror, nor hate any part of her body excessively.
She completes the requisite amount of steps for herself and for Ressler, and she does her breathing exercises. Talks briefly to her Uncle Joe on the phone.
Ignores a call from her mother, and communicates with her father exclusively through emojis. She watches a half-hour documentary on climate change at 5 pm, and times her wallowing after. Ten minutes to worry about the state of the world, and then she puts her hair up in a messy bun and gets ready for work.
The walk to Sweeney’s Bar will take her ten minutes, the way it always does.
Meaning she’ll be right on time for her shift, the way she always is.
There is nothing remarkable about her day at all, no cause for concern.
This is a fun game, and if you play it with some pals, you’re going to have a great time. One of my very good pals who is currently employed at Slope is the one who introduced me to this game, and I’ve had the opportunity to collaborate with him on quite a few occasions when playing it. It is incredible!