Then I notice that one of the crates has nothing on it. Upon the first mattress, the one in the corner, lies a girl with no cigarette box at her feet.
That's when I see that this girl is Shanna.
Sedated, thinner than I'd ever seen her, ragged and beaten, my sister is nevertheless still alive.
The missing box, the one with the finger that was meant for me, had been collecting dust for a year behind our sink. While every hour of every day since, Shanna has been confined here.
For a very brief moment I feel nothing but elation that my sister is actually alive after months of convincing myself that she was dead.
But then my culpability sinks in.
Shanna has been confined here for an entire year, suffering unimaginably, all because of me.
I can't take it. I'm so ashamed. I let the blanket fall back over the hole, drop to my knees, and I throw up in the dark corner.
As I heave, I know it's too loud. The shame I feel over having lead Shanna to the basement now doubles with shame over not having the strength to control my body. But I can't help it. I heave again, helplessly, and I cough.
Then I feel a hand wrap around my ankle. Or, more precisely, I feel a thumb and a pinky finger clamp down against my bare skin and pull me ferociously toward the hole.
