When I woke up the next morning, the itch was worse. Scarily, it wasn't just my back now either; there was a patch on my left leg and one on my left arm. At least these I could look at; the one on my leg looked a bit dry, but my arm looked and felt perfectly normal. This was starting to get concerning. I stood up from my bed, to see that breakfast had already been delivered, along with another note.

Dear Lily,

The itch you are experiencing is a normal part of the process, and will fade in time. Allow us to reiterate that it is best for you to remain as relaxed as possible, as agitation may exacerbate such symptoms.

I could scarcely believe what I was reading. "What process?" I shouted. "What are you doing to me?"

Right, slow down. Panicking isn't going to help. I took a few deep breaths, then stopped to consider the implications of that note. First thing; someone is indeed actively listening to me. That had been the first time I'd spoken since I was kidnapped, and there had been a response with my next meal. Second, they're willing to respond to questions, at least to some extent. Third, and possibly most importantly, this isn't a simple kidnapping for ransom.

Am I being used as some sort of human research material? The sort of experiment that involves kidnapping children from the street instead of using willing volunteers would not be the sort of experiment I would want to be a part of. Heck, given the widespread destitution, I wouldn't doubt they would find willing volunteers for anything, as long as they paid them as much as this kidnapping must have cost to arrange.

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"Please, if you don't want me to panic, keeping me informed of what to expect would help."

No new note came with my next meal, and I could only think of two possible reasons why. The better option would be that at the end of the month they would release me, and didn't want any information leaked that may help track them down. It seemed unlikely, but given the effort they went through to not let me see a single face or hear a single voice, it was plausible. Even the notes were typed rather than hand-written.

The more likely alternative was that whatever it was they were doing to me was so bad that telling me would make me panic more than leaving me in the dark. Oh, maybe a third option; the test they're doing is psychological. Yes, I'll happily grasp at any straws if it means I can pretend option two isn't the most likely.

What could I do about it? Hunger strike? What would that achieve? I had no idea how they were doing whatever they were doing to me. It could be something in the food, but it could just as easily be in the air, or there could be someone sneaking in every night and jabbing me with needles. Heck, for all I know, each time I sleep they sedate me and keep me out for a week. I had no power at all in this situation. The best I could do would be to injure or kill myself, and that would obviously harm me more than my captors. I could still do nothing but wait.

Doing my best to put my fears and frustration aside, I once again returned to my current book, sitting naked on my cell's bed. At this rate, I was going to need a fresh supply long before the month was up. Where did they even get them all from? I didn't think physical books were even being manufactured anymore.