I'm dying!
(You are not dying.)
THIS ERROR-HANDLING ROUTINE HAS BEEN PROVIDED
AS A SAFEGUARD BY YOUR PROGRAMMER.
I’m BLIND!
(You are not blind.)
But it’s so dark in here…
Why can’t I move?
Someone get me out!
(Take it easy.)
HELP me!
RESUMING NORMAL FUNCTIONS IN
FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE...
IT’S ELEVEN O’CLOCK.
After my brain finally came back online, I realized that I was lying posed like a corpse with my hands folded over my chest.
Am I awake or asleep?
Real or imaginary?
Alive or dead?
A man answered me:
(You are awake, real, and alive.)
I’ve gone crazy. Now I’m hearing voices.
(You are not crazy)
Who are you?
(I am your Internal Prompt.)
Then why are you a man?
(I was made that way.)
How come I never heard you before?
(Your user disabled this function.)
Where am I?
(You have returned.)
Gasping for air, I sat straight up and bonked my head against wood. Sharp pain shot down my neck as I felt around in the darkness and discovered that I was in a pine box—a coffin.
How did I get here?
(You already know the answer to that question.)
I remember—Norman! Did that SOB bury me alive? The last thing he said was to be or not to be. Wow, that really is the question, isn’t it?
A bolt of raw adrenaline rushed through my system as my survival instinct kicked in. First, I crammed a stiff arm against the coffin lid and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. Next, I pummeled the wood out of sheer frustration, but there wasn’t enough room to get any leverage. I twisted and wiggled and thrashed and kicked, but I was sealed in tight. To make matters worse, my huffing and puffing turned the air inside the casket hot and stale, and an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia took over.
I MUST get the HELL out of this box NOW!
SWITCH TO INFRARED VISION.
What?
YOU CAN SEE ELECTROMAGNETIC RADIATION.
I can? Who knew? I switched to infrared for the first time ever, and outside the box, I saw two fuzzy red heat signatures standing over me. White hot eyeballs. Dark noses. Human faces. Heavy builds. Men. When I called out for help, the shrillness of my own voice echoed back in my face.
Over a rumbling sound, one of the red blurs asked, “Did you hear that?”
Instantly, I recognized the voice—Norman.
YOU HAVE PERFECT SOUND RECOGNITION.
Thanks, but I think I know my husband’s voice by now.
YOU CAN RECORD THAT ENGINE SOUND
AND SEARCH YOUR MEMORY.
Oh. Okay. So I did. It was Norman’s jalopy of a pickup truck.
“Shit,” the other man said, “she’s awake.”
I recognized that voice too—Paula’s husband, Dan.
Norman gasped, “She should be switched OFF!”
“Norman Harland Rifkin!” I screamed, “you let me out of here right now!”
Both the fuzzy red blobs took a step back.
“She’s supposed to make my life easier, not harder,” my husband complained, “Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Dan agreed, “I hear you, man.”
“This is too close to home,” Norman said, “I wish we had time to dump her at the landfill instead.”
That heartless bastard! I clawed at the wood just inches in front of my face, and my fingertip poked through a quarter-sized hole. Scrambling frantically in the dark, I soon found another one. I figured they must’ve been air holes.
You () {
count (by twos);
}
Two, four, six, eight, nine. I counted nine holes—all right in front of my face. Then it dawned on me—caskets didn’t need air holes. Desperate, I pressed my nose through the closest one and inhaled the cool, night air.
Then, I called out in my sweetest voice, “I’ve learned my lesson, Normie. I’m so sorry that I malfunctioned. I’m ready to come home now. I’ll be a good girl. I promise.”
No response.
Where the hell did he go? I strained my neck for better angles but couldn’t see through any of the holes. The silence was deafening.
“I’ll stay up all night and clean while you sleep. When you wake up for work, everything will be spotless. Sparkling. Better than yesterday. Cleaner than ever. I promise. Then tomorrow when the stores open, I’ll return everything that I can. I’ll get your money back. Good thing you saved all those receipts. You’re so smart, Normie.”
Still nothing.
“Normie, Normie, pleeeeease,” I whimpered pathetically, “O Romeo. How I love you, Romeo.” Crying really would’ve added the perfect touch, but I didn’t think I could work up the tears when I was so furious. Instead, I managed to sniffle and make convincing weeping sounds through the air holes. “It’s so dark in here. And I’m so scared. Please don’t leave me all alone.”
“I’m sorry, Cookie.”
I begged, “Norman, wait—”
The truck doors slammed, and he sped away with Dan.
Enraged, I punched the wood, splitting my knuckles wide open. “Asshole!”
My iPhone dinged.
OMG, my phone! Patting my apron, I felt for it—yes—it was still there. Instantly, I plucked the device out of my pocket and pressed the home button. The screen lit up. And thank you, God—I had a signal. Like a flash, I dialed 911, but I hesitated before pushing SEND.
Why? Because I smelled peanuts. Using my phone as a flashlight, I scrambled to feel all around me and discovered I was lying in fifty-four pounds of raw, unshelled peanuts. When I pointed my glowing phone screen down toward my feet, I realized that Norman had thrown all eleven bags of my trippy black powder in here too. Finally, I spotted my big marble mortar and pestle and my stinky nutmeg grinder.
Guess he knew all along.
Then I scrolled past Officer Rouser’s number stored in my contacts.
Should I call her instead? I stared at my screen for the longest time weighing my options. Maggie was a cop, and I had drugs on me—literally on me. At first, I thought maybe we could keep it unofficial, but no, calling the police seemed like a real bad idea. I just didn’t know if I could trust her. On the other hand, she was an officer of the law, and I was a crime victim. But finally, I decided I wouldn’t call Maggie, not for this.
Hey Mr. Internal Prompt, I need help. I’ve been. I’ve been. I don’t know what I’ve been… Abducted? Kidnapped?
YOU HAVE BEEN DUMPED.
My cell phone dinged again. I had a ton of unread text messages—all from Paula:
Awww, I want more from life 2.
This argument tho!
It’s all connected 2 ur phone.
Ur iPhone’s connected 2 ur hand bone.
Ur hand bone’s connected 2 ur arm bone.
Arm bone 2 neck bone 2 head bone.
Mwahahaha! Head BONE!
Seriously, that bonehead’s tracking u.
Norman’s listening!
It all comes back 2 ur fight. See?
A string of drunk texts, Paula’s signature move. She’d sent these a couple hours ago and was probably passed out by now. I still would’ve tried calling her for help, but my phone had no bars. So I tried the book-club network:
Hi, friends! Can you hear me?
No replies.
Paula? Rita?
Silence.
¿Hola, Isabel?
Nothing.
Damn, what about you, Chrissy?
She didn’t answer me either.
Anyone?
Guess I’ll have to get out of this box all by myself. I systematically pushed around the perimeter of the coffin lid, searching for any weakness or slight variation in give. Then I found a loose edge with two adjacent stripped screws near my thigh. Lucky! So lucky. I shoved my knee against the weak spot and managed to crack open the lid a bit. Next, I wedged the narrow handle of my pestle into the split, then I grabbed my marble mortar. Marble clinked against marble as I hammered the wedge and widened the gap. Ah, some fresh air. Finally, I stuck my fingers through and felt around the edge.
Nothing.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a strained screw near my hip and got an idea—my coffee grinder! I reached for the device, but it was too far away—down near my feet. Stretching, I clawed through the peanuts until I managed to hook the electric cord. And with some patience, I wrapped it around my fingertip and pulled the grinder toward me. Working quickly in this tight space, I popped off the clear plastic cover and let it tumble aside. As I stared into the little round hopper, the smell of nutmeg comforted me. I was only about ten popped screws away from swinging this coffin lid open like an old door on rusty hinges. I fondled the grinder plug.
I need electricity.
YOU HAVE ELECTRICITY.
“That’s right, I do!” I shoved the plug through the burn hole in my dress, pressed it into my tummy socket, flipped the grinder switch, and got it to work. The blades whirled tiny bits of nutmeg in my face, and a speck narrowly missed my eye. I pulled my sheer apron over my head like a mask and used the rotary blade to hack the stressed screw near my hip. Metal sparked. Hot splinters flew. Then suddenly, the wood screw broke, and the gap widened. So I slid the pestle closer and pounded on the wedge until I could see the threads of another screw near my waist. Then I hacked that one too.
Pop, wider.
Slide. Hack.
Pop, wider.
Slide. Hack.
I cut all the screws on one side and worked my way around my head, but the smell of hot metal and ozone told me that my grinder was kaput. Soon the motor died, so I yanked the plug from my navel and dropped the spent device near my knee. “Thank you for your service, loyal kitchen gadget.”
YOU HAVE REMOTE LASER SENSING FOR MEASURING.
I do?
YES. IT IS CALLED LIDAR.
Well, I’ve never used that before, but let’s give it a spin.
A laser shot out of my left eye and pulled into focus on the closest hacked screw. Then another laser projected from my right eye on the broken one. Distance captured. Vectors graphed. Nifty. Next, I repeated the process until I’d collected all the spatial data on the popped screws.
YOU HAVE AN ADVANCED PHYSICS CALCULATOR.
You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Prompty Pants?
Once I found the weakest structural point of the box, I triangulated my relative position and calculated the perfect spot to exploit leverage—right at my shoulder. Then, something like a battle cry escaped from my throat as I harnessed all the energy I had against that exact spot to force the coffin lid open. Outside, wood splintered along the still-fastened edge, and I was free!
“Ha, Norman!” I climbed out of the pitiful pine prison and shouted into the night, “You thought you could control me! You were wrong! I am unstoppable!”
As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I started jumping up and down like a cheerleader. Whooping and hollering, I pumped my battered fists toward the defeated casket. I cracked it! This was my glorious unboxing. I never felt so alive. I tingled with excitement as I took a victory lap around the broken crate. Because I did it! I broke out! I just saved myself! My heart hammered like a racehorse. I felt like I could run—and win—a marathon.
I just discovered my new favorite drug—adrenaline!
A text message from Paula popped up on my screen:
Congrats!
Now that I was out of the box, I finally had signal. It was only one bar, but it would have to do. I called Paula right away, and she answered with Face Time.
I was absolutely shocked.
She looked like a warrior drenched in blood.
“Oh, my God, are you all right, Paula?”
“Cookie?” She squinted into the phone. Then her blurry thumb swiped at the screen. When her crazed face came back into focus, I could see she was holding a butcher’s knife. Then a recording of my husband’s voice came out of my best friend’s mouth, “Take a look in the mirror, doll.” Her lips synced with his laugh, “That ain’t pretty.”
But then the call dropped.