"We have to do something."

Derek lolled his head to the side. His vision felt almost kaleidoscopic. "Like what?"

Still sandwiched between Derek and Jason on the lumpy mattress, Aaron could no longer fight the shivers that were racking his frame. "Something. Anything. We'll die if we go much longer without water. He'll die."

Aaron gestured towards his other side, where Jason lay in some faint dreamland between unconsciousness and delirium. A deprivation-dazed Derek peered over to get a better look. The oldest boy was pale almost to the point of greyness, and his brow was licked with the telltale sweat of a high fever. It had been two days since the morning when they'd discovered the flood, but all three of them were still confined to the creaky top bunk bed. It seemed that they were condemned by some particularly evil god (or perhaps, by an absence of any benevolent god) to stay crammed beside one another. Their muscles ached from lack of use, and the air had only grown colder and damper. The water level in the basement hadn't risen, they didn't think, but it sure as hell hadn't subsided either. And still, no relief came. If the Roycewoods knew about their crisis, they certainly didn't care—no one had been down to the cellar to so much as check that they were alive. The boys fantasized that there were bottles of fresh water and plastic-wrapped sandwiches waiting for them at the top of the stairs, but they couldn't be sure. After all, it wasn't uncommon for the Roycewoods to go a few days without depositing a tray of supplies for them. Usually though, they at least had access to sink water. Now, the temperature and the flood had rendered even short crusades to the bathroom out of the question.

The circumstances had been harsh for Aaron and Derek, yes, but they'd downright wreaked havoc on Jason. He'd become feverish on their first day trapped in the bunk, saying quite succinctly to his fellow captives, "I feel like a wet pile of crap." Now, on the second day, he hadn't so much as opened his eyes.

"Come on, Derek," Aaron said, his teeth knocking together so hard he could swear they'd crack. "We've gotta at least check the top of the stairs. Soon, we'll be so dehydrated we won't be able to see straight."

Both boys were too headstrong to admit that already, they couldn't see straight. And both knew that Jason needed water and food more direly than they cared to say out loud. In the position he lay now (sprawled about the bed, sweaty and sallow) he looked chillingly like a dead body. They could only assume that this was fate's way of cautioning them that, if they didn't do something soon, he'd actually become one.

"I know," Derek said quietly. "But what if there's nothing there? The water's only gonna make us colder, Aaron. And who knows what kind of nasty-ass diseases are in there? We could get sick, too."

Something in Aaron's tired brown eyes became briefly alight with determination. "Jason's our brother. We have to try."

Derek couldn't argue with that. After sharing a minute of sullen, silent eye contact, the boys began to shuffle horizontally across the bunk, towards the ladder.

"I'll go first," Aaron said, swallowing the nausea that stirred in his gut at the sight of the waist-high filthy water. Derek nodded.

Looking equal parts revulsed and resolute, Aaron began to climb down the ladder. When he'd reached the last rung that hadn't yet been consumed by the flood, he glanced down into the mire that their bedroom had become. He could see a blurry version of himself in the reflection of the algae-colored water, and he simply stared at it for a moment. Aaron could tell that he was far thinner than he'd been just three months prior, and his brow seemed to have carved itself into an expression of perpetual indifference. His eyes, however, gave him away; they were still just as afraid as they'd been on that first day in the cellar. He was still afraid, even if he'd become better at hiding it.

With one stuttering breath, Aaron stepped into the water.

They were shivering too violently to even speak as they waded through the basement. Derek could only hear the sloshing of their steps and the chattering of Aaron's teeth as they traversed the flooded hallway.

Finally, Aaron's foot ran into a blockade; the base of the cellar steps. He squinted in a fruitless attempt to see if there was, in fact, a tray waiting for them at the top of the stairs, but the light was too low. They'd have to check for themselves.

"C-careful," Aaron said. "It's s-slippery."

Holding onto the rickety banister for dear life, they began to climb. It was only when they reached the landing—the terribly empty landing—that both boys collapsed onto the ground, paralyzed by what they saw. Or rather, what they didn't see.

"No…" Derek whispered.

There was nothing. Not even a measly bottle of water. Tears stung the backs of his eyes, and he had to gulp down the urge to start wailing at the ceiling.

Aaron, of course, didn't cry. He honestly wasn't sure if his body was even capable of crying anymore. But one thing was for damn sure—he hadn't lost the ability to be angry. And he sure as hell wasn't going to let some fucking rainwater be the straw that broke his spirit. No, he'd been through too much—seen too much—to give up because of a lousy thunderstorm.

He charged towards the cellar door (which, as usual, was locked) and began to bang on it with all he was worth.

"Help us! We need help! We won't make it down here!"

Aaron's screams yanked Derek out of his sorrow, and he too crawled forwards and began to pound at the door with both fists. The boys yelled together, their voices devoid of any restraint, forming a chorus composed solely of will and rage. Splinters from the coarse wood pierced their hands as they swung, but neither was lucid enough to care. They were blinded by their resolve. Never had their survival seemed to lay in such a delicate balance before the flooding week. It had changed them. Animalized them.

Finally, they heard a shuffling from the other side of the door.

"Will you two sacks of shit shut your mouths?" came Mrs. Roycewood's witchy voice.

"Please!" Aaron cried. "The basement's flooded! We don't have any water, and Jason's sick!"

There was a great stillness from beyond the door. Derek and Aaron both paused and glanced at each other with some muddled version of hope flashing in their eyes.

After a few minutes of silence, there were more footsteps. The hoarse, ugly sound of Mrs. Roycewood chuckling sent shivers running up the spines of the boys' soaked tee-shirts.

"You'll join us for family dinner tonight," the woman said. They could hear the sinister smile in her voice. "We'll discuss it then. Come to the landing at 6pm sharp."

And so that was how all three boys ended up sitting around the varnished mahogany table in the upstairs dining room. Like everything about the Roycewoods, the room looked outdated, but an upscale sort of outdated. Perhaps the entire house would've been considered a mansion in Victorian times, but now, the cobweb-ridden decor was, at best, antiquated.

"Who'd like another roll?" Mr. Roycewood asked, raising the bread basket with a lopsided smile. Derek and Aaron's hands both shot straight up. Jason, meanwhile, was still too disoriented by his fever to do much more than nod. The other two boys had had to quite literally drag him through the flood and up the stairs in order to get him to dinner. Even now, he required incessant prompting to eat and drink. Anyone who didn't know better might assume he was drugged.

Derek and Aaron needed no prompting. They both devoured their chicken and mashed potatoes like starved animals; it was the best food they'd eaten since their respective abduction dates. For the first time in days, their circumstances became but a nagging itch at the back of their minds. They were dry, and they had food and water, and the Roycewoods were being shockingly kind. No one had gotten hit. No one had been insulted. The peace the boys felt at that moment was an almost alien sensation. They'd gotten so used to living in a constant state of paranoia.

"Now," Mrs. Roycewood said once their plates had been scraped clean. "What was all that racket about a flood?"

Derek and Aaron made nervous eye contact.

"There's about two feet of water in the basement," Aaron said, staring down at his silverware. "It's real cold. That's what made Jason sick, I think."

From across the table, Jason woozily nodded. The Roycewoods simply stared at their captives for a moment. Then, in perfect unison, they broke into a fit of deranged laughter. The boys could do nothing but gaze at each other with eyes full of terror.

"Wouldn't it have been a shame, Roger," Mrs. Roycewood cackled. "If the reports had forecasted some terrible rain, but we'd forgotten to open the storm drain?"

Roger's fat cheeks were tomato red with laughter. "Such a shame, such a shame."

The boys froze. A bolt of shock tightened their throats, stealing the very breath from their lungs. It was almost unthinkable. All they could do was gape at their captors, who'd reached a new level of psychopathy with this stunt. The notion of just how easily they could've died wasn't lost on any of them. And really, it was their first bit of tangible evidence that these people, these monsters, didn't give a single shit whether they lived or died. The Roycewoods weren't above cold-blooded murder. The boys knew that now.

Derek felt the tips of his ears grow hot with fury. The whole time, he thought, while we were trapped in that goddamn bunk bed, they'd known. They'd more than known—they'd flooded the basement on purpose. Something twisted in his chest. Something young and beastly and rearing for a fight. Before he could think better of it, Derek grabbed his plate with both hands and smashed it down onto the table, letting the shards mushroom outwards in all directions like hateful confetti. He jumped out of his chair, onto his feet. Both Roycewoods quickly followed suit. Derek glanced towards the parlor door. It was wide open.

I could do it, he thought. I could make it out.

"You move even an inch, boy," Roger Roycewood growled, "and I'll make you wish you hadn't."

Time and noise stood still. Derek looked towards the door, then back to his kidnappers.

"Screw you," was all he had time to say before starting his dash towards the exit.

Jason was unconscious again. Aaron had had to haul him back to the top bunk on piggyback, even whilst wading through the murk. Derek, meanwhile, was god knows where.

Aaron had to admit, the kid had guts. When Derek had discovered the front door to be locked, he'd launched himself through a nearby window and out into the azalea bushes, bringing a downpour of shattered glass along with him. Still, he'd never stood a chance. Roger, despite his flabby appearance, seemed to possess incredible speed. Derek was snatched up again just as quickly as he'd been abducted the first time.

As Aaron sat miserably in the top bunk, watching the water slowly drain from the cellar (after returning from the ill-fated dinner, he'd splashed around for an hour until he'd found and opened the storm drain), he wondered what had become of Derek. Last he'd seen of him, Roger was pulling the handcuffed 12-year-old towards the woods by the neck of his tee-shirt. Aaron couldn't bring himself to consider the possibility that he'd never see Derek again. The boys may not have known each other long, but the days they'd spent together were so soul-sculpting that it was impossible not to become extraordinarily attached to one another. Derek was a member of their team now, however doomed a team it was. It seemed quite unfathomable that he could just be gone.

It was the next morning that Aaron got his answer. Overnight, the swamp had trickled out of their residence, and the only remnants of the flooding week came in the desolation the water had left in its wake. The sheets of both the bottom bunk and the twin bed were no longer baby blue; instead, they'd been stained a putrid olive color, and they smelled of wet mold. Even the concrete had been tinged slightly green. The bathroom looked as though it'd recently been the subject of a shipwreck, and the couches in the living room had mysterious moss growing on their upholstery.

Aaron was busy trying to scrub the stench out of the bedsheets (with only bathwater and his bare hands, mind you) when he heard the cellar door bang open. He froze. Mere moments later, it clicked shut again. Still, Aaron could swear there was another noise too—a whispery sort of wheezing. He abandoned the grimy sheets and made his way out into the hallway to investigate.

A small silhouette was curled into a tight ball at the top of the cellar stairs. Aaron rushed towards it, taking the steps by twos.

"Derek!" he cried. "Derek, what happened? Are you alright?"

There was no answer. When he finally reached the landing, Aaron put an urgent hand on Derek's shoulder, as if to verify for himself that the other boy was really there. Really alive. Instantly though, Aaron did a double take—Derek felt ice cold. And his eyes…

He was looking straight ahead, staring into nothingness. Even unfocused as they were, Derek's eyes bore holes in Aaron's chest. The kid looked haunted. Like an adolescent ghoul.

He crouched down beside Derek and gently began to shake his shoulders. "Hey. Hey, Derek, look at me. Eyes on me. What happened?"

Slowly, mechanically, Derek turned his head towards Aaron. A few tears darted down his cheeks, so fast it was as though the drops themselves were running from something. Only then did Aaron notice how fiercely the boy was trembling.

"Talk to me, Derek," he said. "What happened?"

The other boy opened his mouth to speak, but only succeeded at producing a throaty cough.

"You're alright now," Aaron said. "But you've got to tell me what they did."

As though forcibly strengthening himself, Derek swallowed and took a heavy breath. "N-night," he stammered. "I-in the w-woods. Chained to a t-tree."

Aaron felt all the color drain from his cheeks.

"You spent the night alone? In the woods?"

Derek just nodded.

"Are… are you okay?" Aaron felt silly even asking.

Derek's eyes seemed to grow even more faraway. Both boys went silent for a moment. Aaron found a strange sort of comfort in just listening to the shaky rhythm of Derek's breaths.

"There are animals out there, you know."

Aaron hadn't been sure it was possible to hate the Roycewoods even more, but upon hearing the strangled vacancy in Derek's voice, he decided he'd stooped to a new level of detestation. He wished something greater than hell upon them. Something that would hurt more.

But for Derek's sake, he said none of this. Instead, he just squeezed the boy's shoulder and said, "Jesus, Der. I'm so sorry."

Derek didn't acknowledge that he'd even heard Aaron.

"Wolves, I think," he murmured. "They sounded close. Real close. I kept almost falling asleep, and then they'd howl, and god, Aaron, it sounded like there were so many of 'em. So I stayed awake."

He held up one of his quivering hands. His knuckles were bloody and raw.

"I kept having to punch the tree just to keep myself awake."

Aaron couldn't stop the grunt of anger from escaping his throat. "Those sorry excuses for human beings should rot in prison. They should fucking rot."

Derek was still staring off into the distance, but Aaron saw his dark eyes well up with tears.

"It was so cold, Aaron," he choked out. "I think I could've died. I think I really could've died."

Aaron squeezed his shoulder again. "You're alive. You made it."

Aaron Hotchner had not received nearly as many hugs as he deserved in this twelve short years, so he wasn't any sort of expert, but of this he was certain; there'd never been a hug so melancholy, and needful, and brotherly, as the one he received when a still-shivering Derek launched himself into Aaron's arms. There'd never been a hug so altogether bittersweet.

"We can't run," Derek said after he pulled back from Aaron, tears still streaming silently down his cheeks. "They'll really kill us next time."

Aaron nodded. "We've just got to do what they say. And now that we know about the drain, they can't flood us in again."

"I still can't believe they did it on purpose," Derek muttered, shaking his head. "That's just plain sick."

"They're sick people. Our only shot is to listen and bide our time."

"They won't try and kill us if we don't make 'em mad, right Aaron?"

Aaron gnawed on his lower lip. "I hope not."

"Maybe people are still looking for us," Derek said.

But both of them knew full well that they weren't the type of children people looked for.

Through the months, Derek carved his own corner into Aaron and Jason's little basement universe. It didn't take long for the original two boys to forget a time when Derek hadn't been there—though they supposed that could've been a consequence of the mental pliancy that captivity required for. After all, they'd become experts at forgetting. Forgetting was the cardinal rule of the cellar-dwellers' (as they so spitefully called themselves) unwritten contact. Forgetting was a comorbidity of their situation. It became a profoundly necessary thing. See, the boys were just young enough to be naturally resilient, but just old enough that they still understood the darkness from which their resilience had risen. So many matters had to be purposefully misplaced in the depths of their minds, just for sanity's sake.

But somehow, even whilst traipsing through all that darkness, they created routines. Habits. They turned themselves into subterranean boys, even if unwillingly so. And it wasn't all as awful as poker night; no, sometimes there was peace. At least, there was stillness, which was about as close to peace as they figured was possible. True to their word, none of them tried to run again.

As the days drew on, Aaron and Derek became thick as thieves, while Jason faded into solitude. He was even quieter than usual, spending his days reading in the twin bed while the two 12-year-olds chased each other around the cellar like dragonflies. It wasn't that he disliked the younger boys, but there was something of a rift between them and him. It was this sense of innocence that they still carried (even if in small quantities). They were better than he was, and so as not to taint their remaining shininess, he kept his distance.

On August 23rd, when the cellar air was dense and muggy with summer heat, Jason turned eighteen. Derek, only just then remembering that birthdays existed, whittled the date into the side of the bunk bed with a rusty nail. He etched in his and Aaron's birthdays, as well.

They had no gifts or cake to give the oldest member of their troop, but in a rather feeble attempt at normalcy, they still sang that night. They'd only just uttered, "Happy birthday dear Jason," when the sound of the cellar door crashing open echoed from above. All three boys clamped their jaws shut. There were footsteps, then a distant fluttering of air, then more footsteps. Shortly thereafter, the door slammed shut.

Once they were sure they were alone again, the boys snuck out into the hallway. Aaron was the first to see it. He bent down to pick up the piece of paper that had been left for them on the floor. On the back, scrawled in neat Sharpie, was written:

FAMILY OUTING TOMORROW. THIS IS THE ONE. NO ARGUMENTS.

Aaron flipped the paper over. There was black and white photograph on the other side that looked as though it'd been taken from afar in some sort of backstreet. The subject of the photo was a blonde child strolling through the alley, and it didn't seem as if the kid was at all aware a picture was being taken.

"Is that… ?" he whispered.

Derek's eyes went wide. "A girl."