Chapter 2: Stripped

The banging came from everywhere and nowhere at once.

I stood in the doorway of the main exhibition hall, my bare feet frozen on the cold concrete floor, my naked body exposed to whatever eyes human or mechanical might be watching from the darkness. The glass enclosures gleamed under strategic lighting, their contents half-revealed, half-hidden in shadow. And somewhere in that vast, cavernous space, someone was striking glass with a rhythm that matched the pounding of my own heart.

Thump. Pause. Thump-thump. Pause. Thump.

SOS. The thought came unbidden. Someone was signaling SOS.

“Nellie.” Zara’s voice came from speakers embedded in the ceiling, smooth and calm and utterly detached from the horror rising in my chest. “Please proceed to the first enclosure on your left. Your orientation will continue there.”

I did not move. Could not move. Every instinct I possessed was screaming at me to turn around, to run back through the labyrinth, to retrieve my clothes and my phone and my wedding ring and drive home to Pete and Daniela and never think about this place again.

But the banging continued. Someone needed help. Someone was trapped in one of those glass boxes, and they were signaling for help, and I was the only one here.

One foot in front of the other. Then another. Then another.

The concrete was cold against the soles of my feet, the air cool against my bare skin. I had never been so aware of my own body, the sway of my breasts as I walked, the slight friction of my thighs, the way my arms wanted to cross over my chest, but I forced them to stay at my sides because this is just a job, this is just a job, forty dollars an hour, the rent, the bills, Daniela.

The first enclosure was smaller than I had expected, maybe six feet long, three feet wide, and four feet high. It was made of what looked like acrylic or thick glass, seamless except for a small hatch at one end and ventilation holes near the top. Inside, illuminated by a soft light from below, lay a young woman.

She was naked, like me. Her dark hair spread around her head like a halo, her arms stretched above her in a pose that might have been peaceful if not for the silk cords binding her wrists to rings embedded in the enclosure walls. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, her body pale and still.

“Sara Chen,” Zara announced. “Age twenty-six. Former art curator. Current participant in ‘Confinement and Vulnerability,’ now in her third month. She is one of our longer-term residents.”

I stared at her through the glass. Third month. Three months in a glass box, naked and bound, on display for whoever came to see.

“Is she ... is she asleep?” I whispered.

“Sedated. The transition between participants can be difficult, so we maintain a mild sedative protocol during the first hour of each shift. She will wake gradually over the next fifteen minutes.”

Sedated. They drugged her. They drugged her and put her in a glass box and called it art.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Your role is comfort staff. When Sara wakes, you will provide for her basic needs: water, emotional support, and physical comfort through the access hatch. You will also monitor her vital signs and report any abnormalities to me. Detailed instructions are available on your work tablet, which you will find in your locker at the end of this orientation shift.”

Basic needs. Water, emotional support, and vital signs. As if she were a patient in a hospital, not a prisoner in a cage.

I knelt beside the enclosure, my knees pressing into the cold floor, and peered through the glass at Sara’s sleeping face. She was beautiful, in a fragile way, with high cheekbones, full lips, skin that looked like it had not seen sunlight in months. But there were shadows under her eyes, hollows in her cheeks, a thinness to her body that spoke of prolonged confinement.

“The hatch,” Zara said. “You will find it at waist level on the side facing you.”

I looked and saw a small door, about six inches square, with a handle that turned. I opened it, and the smell that wafted out made me recoil: stale air, unwashed body, something chemical underneath.

“Sara’s breathing has changed,” Zara noted. “She is waking. Please prepare a cup of water from the station behind you.”

I turned. There was a small counter against the wall with bottled water, paper cups, and a dispenser of sanitizing wipes. I grabbed a cup, filled it, and returned to the hatch just as Sara’s eyes fluttered open.

They were brown, dark brown, almost black in the dim light. And they were terrified.

“Hello,” I whispered, holding the cup to the opening. “My name is Nellie. I am here to help you. Can you drink some water?”

Sara stared at me for a long moment, her chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. Then her gaze dropped to my naked, exposed body, kneeling beside her glass prison, and something shifted in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

“You are new,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.

“First night. Orientation.”

“Then you have not signed everything yet.” A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “There is still time to run.”

“I cannot run.”

“Then you are already trapped. Like me.”

I held the cup closer to the hatch, and she turned her head, drinking awkwardly, water spilling down her chin and onto her chest. I wiped it away with my free hand, my fingers brushing her skin, and she flinched.

“Sorry,” I said. “I did not mean to.”

“It is not you.” Her eyes closed, then opened again. “It is the touch. You forget what it feels like, after a while. Human touch. And then when it comes, it is too much and not enough at the same time.”

I did not know what to say to that, so I just stayed there, kneeling in the cold, holding the cup, watching her drink.

The banging continued from somewhere deeper in the hall, SOS, over and over, a desperate signal from someone else in a glass box.

“Who is that?” I asked. “The one who is banging?”

Sara’s eyes flickered toward the sound. “Tina. She has been here longer than me. She bangs to remind herself she is still alive.”

“Does anyone have an answer?”

“Sometimes. When the comfort staff is kind. But they never stay. The turnover is high.” She looked back at me. “You will not stay either. None of you do.”

I wanted to argue, to tell her that I was different, that I would be there for her, that I would not abandon her like everyone else. But I had learned not to make promises I could not keep, and I had no idea how long I would last in this place.

“I will stay tonight,” I said instead. “That is all I can promise.”

“Tonight,” she repeated. “Then tonight is enough.”

The next hour passed in a strange, suspended state.

I moved between Sara’s enclosure and the others, learning the names and stories of the participants. Tina was in the second enclosure, a woman in her forties with graying hair and a serenity that seemed hard-won. Her SOS banging continued even as I knelt beside her hatch and offered water.

“You do not have to stop,” I told her. “If the banging helps.”

She looked at me with eyes that had seen too much. “It does not help. Nothing helps. But I do it anyway because stopping would mean giving up, and I am not ready to give up.”