In the morning, Spencer put on the same daily outfit A had picket out for her.
She'd eat part of the daily meal A had given her (today, a few boiled beans and a cheese stick, thankfully still in its package) and put whatever was non-perishable in her pocket.
The afternoon she'd spend studying, writing carefully composed sentences into the notebook, tearing out pages despite seeming satisfied with them, placing them in a neat pile in her trash.
In the evening, she moved around the furniture in her room, pushing the large pieces of wood, picking them up if she could. A good way to exercise, she hoped.
When night came, she lay awake in bed, her eyes closed tightly, until the doors would click open.
Then, Spencer would jump out of her sheets, grab one of the coded letters out of her trash can, and run out into the hallway. She knocked on the door of one of her friends, despite knowing they were too afraid to answer, and slipped the piece of paper underneath.
After that, she went back to her own cell, allowing herself the luxury of sleep.
When the alarm went off in the morning, Spencer would step into her closet, pulling a new set of clothes over the ones she was already wearing (the one benefit of losing so much weight; even if A would visit their prisoner, they would hardly notice).
Repeat.
Only a few days later, it was show time.
Taking a deep breath, the brunette pulled the duvet off herself, standing up in the middle of the room, in the midst of the night. No way A was going to like this.
"Hey!" Spencer yelled, looking straight at the camera. She was shaking, but her voice remained steady. "I know that in a few minutes, the cameras will turn off and the doors will unlock."
The blinking red light listened intensively.
"And I will leave this room," the captive continued forcefully, almost spitting in anger. " I will go out, and talk to my friends, and there is nothing you can do about it."
Only a minute later, the doorknob began to shuffle. It worked. A was actually here.
Quickly, Spencer wrapped her hand around the bedside lamp, which was newly positioned on the table right next to the door.
When it finally opened, she hit it over the head of her tormentor. The metal hit the masked monster's head with a thump as they fell to the ground.
Turns out Hanna was right all along; a lamp made a great weapon.
Right on time, the familiar clicking sound signalled Spencer's opportunity to run.
Without hesitation, the young Hastings raced out of the door, into Hanna's waiting arms. The heavy wood slammed into its place, while Aria pushed the chair from her own cell underneath the knob.
It was done. A was trapped.
"Oh my god," Emily breathed from beside her.
There was no way Spencer could tell her how grateful she was to hear her voice.
