When I see what's behind it, I drop to my knees and let out a choked sob.

It's Maryanne.  

She's curled up in a ball on the ground. When the door opens, she turns her bruised face toward the light and squints. Her dress is soiled, her sweater is torn, and she is chained to the wall. Behind her, stretching back for about ten to fifteen feet there is a row of similar chains. They're limp, dark gray, and empty. When she sees me standing there, tears start to flow out of her bloodshot eyes.

"Holy shit," I whisper, reaching for the chains. I'm still on my knees. With quick, wandering hands, I search for some sort of lock or chink in the metal. "Holy shit, Maryanne, what happened?"

"Jackie, they took me." Her voice is hoarse, like she has been screaming without access to water. "They took me. They-- you can't let them--"

She starts crying again, inconsolable. Her words become unintelligible, and my heart breaks a little.

I can't find a way to free her, not right now, not like this. The chains require a key I don't have. I take her hand, which is covered and caked in blood and other bodily filth. The entire room reeks of the stuff; it's pooled a few feet away from her. That seems to be as far away as her chains would let her move.

"Maryanne. Maryanne, I need you to look at me. Please look at me, I'm here, please look at me." I try to catch her eyes, to catch her chin in my hands. She flinches away, but she meets my eyes.

I can hear someone's voice through the walls of the room; someone must be in the church-- or, rather, two someones, because I can hear muffled bits of a conversation. I'm running out of time. If I don't move quickly, I'm going to get caught.

Maryanne hears the same thing. She must, because she follows my line of sight to the storage closet's door. Swallowing another sob, she looks me in the eyes once again. Hers are deep, dark-brown pools full of panic and fear, and tears run out of them like hot molasses. "Jackie, I need your help--"

"Yeah, I know--"

"No, listen. You're going to get caught and put in here with me. I need you to remember that I'm here, I need you to tell someone-- tell Matt, tell someone, remember that I'm here, please."

"Maryanne, I'm not leaving you." I take her small, bruised hands in mine. "Maryanne, I swear to you-- I'm going to find a way to get you out of here."

"Promise?"

"Promise. I need to cover my stupid behind because people are coming, but I'll be back. I'll be right back, I swear. I love you, Maryanne."

I don't need to add a "platonically" to that. Maryanne knows that romantic love isn't the only important kind. It's not like any of that is important anyway-- not as I leave the storage closet. Maryanne stays there, trembling in the dark.

Does the moon love the sun when he eclipses him? Does he love the sun when he shuts it away, warps the shadows on the earth? Is it possible for me to still adore Maryanne when I, at her behest, close the door to the little room behind the storage closet? When I don't free her? When I leave her behind to save myself?

This is my fault. I don't know how. I just know it is.

Can I say that I love her with all my heart when I can not take her with me?

Quicker than I have ever moved before, I dart out of the storage closet and into the Bishop's office. My arms itch and burn under my sweater. It's a quick sprint, and it takes me where I need to go without making me too hot or inspiring too much sweat under the high collar of my sweater.

I pretend to read my scripture study notes with the door to the Bishop's office open.

Whoever was walking down the hall finally gets to a place near where I am. Now that they're not muffled by layers of wall, I can tell who they are. The clerks for the congregation approach. Both are tall and weedy, with narrow shoulders and small thighs. The first is lean, wearing a pair of khakis, a brown leather belt, and a long-sleeved plaid shirt in cheery pastel shades of yellow, green, blue, purple, and pink. Father would hate that about him. This man's hair is cropped close to his head. I vaguely remember his name being Brother Marcus Moldovo.

Believe it or not, I'm not the best with names. Despite technically knowing these men my entire life, I don't know what to call them. One is in a shirt with diagonal slight-sky-blue and white stripes; both of them are smiling and chatting. I can see them across the hall, unlocking the door to their shared office.

"Brother Moldovo," the man in the blue shirt says. "I think today is going to be a good day."

"Absolutely, Brother Hannah. The sun is shining and the winter must be lifting. God bless the Hare and the Maiden! We have really locked in the beginning of spring."

I try not to bristle as I sit in my chair in Bishop Stern's office. I can't tell if that's a veiled inside joke or not, but it makes the alarm bells in my head ring.

" Ido believe we're going to be having a pleasant spring this year." Brother Hannah's grin stretched the thin skin of his lips.

"Indeed."

Eventually, the door is unlocked and the men set about their business. I pretend that I don't notice them. Instead, my heart is pounding quicker than it ever should be and I have to breathe through my nostrils if I want to give off the face of being calm.

And, eventually, they see me sitting there, in Bishop Stern's office, and Brother Moldovo jumps.

"Woah! How long have you been there?"

"Since my meeting with Bishop Stern." I try to keep my voice from shaking. It's technically not a lie, so I shouldn't have any qualms about saying it. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize, Sister Monroe. We should have noticed you were there before. How are you today?"

"I'm doing just fine, considering," I faux-confess. (I am not doing just fine. I'm not doing fine at all.) "And you?"

"I'm doing great! I can't wait for you to beat back winter and bring us more sunny days like this one! Once we find Maryanne, spring will follow soon after."

Do they not know that she's right there, in the storage room? That she has been held captive, forced to live in an oppressive darkness for almost exactly a week?

As far as I can tell, she was taken that night, right after I left. And, if she was taken then, it had to have been Bishop Stern who took her. It had to have been him because...

But what if it wasn't? What if it was one of the council members who was in that classroom? As much as I'm skeeved out by him, it feels like Bishop Stern couldn't have, wouldn't have taken her. I can't believe it would be him.

Brother Moldovo smiles at me, and I can't place what is behind his teeth. Is that genuine good will I see, or is it something darker, a little more sinister, a little more informed on what is really going on here? Am I reading too much into this? I feel like I am.

"We're just here to pick up some papers and files," he continues, "so don't mind us."

"Sure thing." I pretend to go back to my notes but, in reality, I'm watching the two of them in my peripheral vision.

To their credit, they do exactly what they said they came here to. They gather up papers and file folders from different cabinets and drawers. I don't know what any of them mean or say, but I do know that they get their papers and go, locking the door to the office behind them.

"See you at church tomorrow, Jackie!" Brother Hannah calls as he leaves the office behind.

"You too, Brother Hannah!" I know full well that I'm going to forget his name.

Once I'm sure that the two of them are gone, I formulate a quick plan in my mind.

Step one: get a plastic cup from the storage closet, fill it with water, and get it to Maryanne. (When I do that, she makes me take the cup with me to the trash can, to pretend it's mine so she won't be punished for it.)

Step two: tell everyone. (I run out of the building, get on my bike, and ride to the Morgan's house, and tell them I found their daughter, and prove it to them, and save Maryanne. Step two is to tell everyone I can that Maryanne is in the church, locked up behind the secret door in the storage closet by Bishop Stern's office.) 

I need to find Matt. I need to tell him.

And I couldn't be more unprepared.

*****

Running should be one of those freeing experiences. It should be fun, even when your chest heaves and your throat burns for want of water and your shoulder cramps up and you feel like you're going to die. There's a wall there, in that internal peak. Everything is easier when you break through it, when the red-brown bricks shatter around you and the entire world feels light. It's supposed to be like a shot of gladness straight to the heart.

That's not the case here.

I'm running faster than I should be able to. It's faster than I have ever gone before. It doesn't feel quick enough. I don't know why I left my bike behind. It didn't occur to me that I should get it when I ran out of the church. All I know is that the sound of keys jingling and jangling in my pocket is driving me insane.

Maybe I already am, though, because I swear I see black robes in the woods when I shouldn't. I swear people are watching me when they aren't. Maybe there's something deeply, intrinsically wrong with me.

The sound of the keys isn't the only thing upsetting me. My mind is racing. I can't shut it up. 

I can't think of anything other than Maryanne, and what the implications of her being there are. 

And what if something goes wrong? What if the world falls apart? What if the scriptures are right and the world does go into some eternal winter, and it falls into chaos, and it's all my fault because I didn't stop it?

And what of Maryanne? How selfish am I, leaving her there? How selfish am I, having spent time doing things other than looking for her while she was there, chained up, covered in blood, shit, piss, and tears? Dehydrated, alone, without a hint of light? 

I should have found her sooner. I should have known. This is my fault. 

This is all my fault.

I should have stayed that night. I should have been there. Whoever took her and locked her in the church couldn't have done that if I was there, with her, waiting. 

Or, better yet, they would have taken me too and at least Maryanne wouldn't be alone.

How selfish am I for imagining a scenario in which my mere presence saves her? Right. Because I'm totally capable of doing anything other than interpreting scriptures and blaspheming under God's bright sun.

I pause on the path, suddenly unable to breathe. I brace myself, locked-up hands on trembling knees, mind racing, feeling like a caged rabbit that can't escape the shaved wood and wet lettuce.

Did the world suddenly warm up? My skin is on fire under my sweater. I want to take it off, but there's nothing I can do short of standing in the woods in my stupid bra and stupider pants. I don't want to put all the new anomalies of my body on display. Nobody needs to see what a disgusting creature I am becoming. Not even God wants to see my bare body-- that's why I'm supposed to be modest, isn't it? It's wrong for me to think of doing anything other than be modest.

My hands lock and freeze up, clenched and flexed, as I try to wiggle out of it, not quite registering what I'm doing. The entire time, my mind is screaming about all the sins I am committing. My mind isn't on what I am doing; it's on what I should be doing.

Is my heart supposed to be beating this fast? Are my hands supposed to shake this much or this violently? The world is on fire. I'm on fire, but the flames are inside of me and I don't know how to put them out.

As my breaths become shallow, quick, high-pitched, and my cheeks begin to tingle, I am terrified that someone will walk by and see me. This is mortifying.

I hate existing, especially like this. All the alarm bells in my head are telling me that someone is going to see me, that somehow my mother is going to see me, that my father will see me, that someone will see me and tell them and they will be embarrassed and I will bear the brunt of their shame. I'm not sure if I can take that.

I can remember this happening before, but I also know that nobody would want to see me like this. I must be doing this for attention. I must be doing this to create some sort of sympathetic internal monologue, like someone is watching me, like someone can hear my every thought and think that I am in the right.

But I'm unreliable. I can't trust anything in my mind. I know that, and isn't what's happening inside me a testament to that? Isn't this a monument to all my internal sins? It's no wonder that God seems not to love me.

Why don't I stop it, then? Why don't I get a hold on myself? I'm pathetic. I'm stupid. I'm disgusting. I'm selfish.

I try to steady myself, to even out my breathing. I'm focusing my eyes on a patch of gray-brown, sun-baked ground, devoid of any green, devoid of anything living. The bare branches and fallen twigs around me rustle, and I can hear them, and they're making it worse. All at once I feel all too full and entirely hollow. Why is this so hard? Why can't I control myself?

As they come back to me, my breaths become longer, jagged, like there's knives in my lungs, like serrated blades are slicing into my raw throat. The world seems a little too bright.

I have to work myself back into a normal standing position. It feels like it takes a little too long.

Ashamed of myself for acting like that, for freaking out in the middle of the woods, I start moving again.

I keep the sweater off, though. There's no need to overheat myself just yet.

*****

In the end, I decide against getting the entire Morgan family. No, I only need two people for this. Both are people I'm supposed to be able to trust, even if one of them skeeves me out. So, I get Matt and I tell Bishop Stern that I needed him at the church. When they join me, I lead them to the place where we should find Maryanne-- where we should free her and have her go home, safe once again.

I look back at the two of them. "I need you to bear with me. Just... Just trust me."

The three of us stand in the hallway. Matt seems to be on tenterhooks; Bishop Stern seems confused and concerned.

"I-- Just-- Look." I fish Bishop Stern's keys out of my pocket and charge forward, into the storage closet, toward where I know the little painted-over door is. When he sees Maryanne, he'll believe me. He'll see what I see. He'll help me free her. Bishop Stern will believe me, too. He'll stop treating me like a silly little girl, because he'll see how serious this is.

I crouch down, slip the key into the lock, turn it, pull the door open--

The room is gone.

The space that was there is bricked over a few inches into the room. The exposed portion of the floor has been cleaned.

I whirl around, then back to the door. "Are-- are you serious? What happened here? Where is she?"

I pat at the bricks until I'm sure my hands are going to bleed. There has to be a way through here, to where Maryanne is. They've hidden her. In the time I was gone-- the hour and a half that I was running back and forth-- someone must have put this wall up.

Bishop Stern looks at me with a cocked head and compassion that looks and feels fake, saccharine, sickly-sweet. "Jacks, are you okay?"

"She was here, I swear she was here." Hot tears threaten to spill over, tainted with frustration and fear. 

I clock the expressions on everyone else's faces. Matt is also on the verge of tears-- and of punching me out. Bishop Stern has the gall to look sad, like he's pitying me. 

My skin goes cold.

"I-- I'm sorry. I shouldn't... I'm sorry." I try not to fall and sink into some sort of deep, unrecognizable depression. I don't get it. She was there. I know she was. She had to be.

"Don't bother trying to find her anymore," Matt says, not looking at me. I can tell he intends for that to be directed at me, though, because he actually looks at Bishop Stern when he speaks to him. "Bishop, I'm going home. I'll see you at church tomorrow."

"God be with you, Matthew," Bishop Stern says, bowing his head slightly.

"And also with you." Matthew leaves before I can say anything, before I can apologize. I can't say anything because he's gone.

By the time he is, Bishop Stern turns back to me. He crouches down for a second, wipes a tear from my eye, and stands back up. "Jacks, what's really going on?"

"I thought she was here," I say, around tears. I'm trying not to cry and failing incredibly in that endeavor. There's some blockage in my throat, like wet-hot tears and runny noses and swollen lips.

"I'm going to have to call your father and tell him about what happened here. Do you understand that?"

"Please don't-- Please don't do anything."

If my father finds out what happened here, it's not going to end well for me. I know it won't. He flips out when I mess up or embarrass him. I don't want to have to endure another night of all the things he does when he's angry at me. 

I can't take it. I don't want to.

"Jacks-- Jacqueline, look at me." When I do, he continues, "I'm concerned about you. Because you are not yet married, your father must be notified and informed about this. You know the role that men have, that God laid out for them-- that we must take care of the women in our care. So I must tell him. Do you understand me?"

I do, unfortunately. I don't like what he's saying, but I do understand, so I nod.

"Good." He smiles, and his teeth gleam with saliva and yellow light. "Very good."