The following morning Steve is woken by the glare of the early morning sun on the bare windows. Stiff and unable to sleep, he figures he might as well get on with his day. Tending to his morning routine, he rinses his mouth while trying to avoid the mirror. Between the pink dress and the two day growth, he looks like a madman.

Hell, he might be a madman. That would explain the lack of razors, rope, or anything that could potentially be a weapon. Maybe that is what happened. Maybe, after years of living with constant stress, the sudden break has caused a mental break. Maybe he was currently sitting in a rubber room, doped out of his mind, while men in white coats watch as he drools and mutters to himself. Whatever the case, Steve needs out!

To the best of his knowledge it's day 2. Sunday. That gives him fourteen days. Fourteen days until he has to be home. Fourteen days until camp finishes. Fourteen days before he has to be there to meet the bus. Kassie, Simon, and Essie are counting on him.

"Think Steve, think."

They got him in so there must be a door, right? Yesterday he checked every inch of every wall... but wait! He's in a tower, right? A trapdoor! There must be a trapdoor!

Steve goes over to one of the two corners of the arced room. Crawling on his hands and knees, he thoroughly checks every board for cracks, gaps or any other anomolies. After he's cleared this area, he starts shoving the chests, dragging the tables, and rolling and stacking the rugs. With everything now piled neatly in the corner, he can see every inch of the floor. What he sees is not encouraging. Besides a few scuffs and scratches he created whilst moving the furnishings, there is nothing! No cracks. No handles. No knotholes. Nothing that might indicate any kind of portal.

"Well how the hell did they get me in here?"

This has taken all morning. As Steve eats lunch, he tries to formulate a new plan.

The stones on the outer facade are to close together to allow for any kind of hand hold. There's nothing that can be used to scale the wall... maybe he can pry up the floorboards!

Yeah! That's a plan. Pry up the boards, make a hole, check out the level below. Even if he can't find a staircase, dropping one level at a time is much safer than jumping from a sixth storey window, right?

It takes Steve some time to find the only metal thing in the entire tower that might, just might, work. The shovel for cleaning ash from the fire grate. He places it on the stone floor of the kitchen, then stomps it as flat as he can. He scrapes the blade of the shovel against the stones to try and create a sharp edge... with limited success.

Taking his newly formed tool, he goes up the step and onto the hard-wood floor of the main room. Surveying the room, Steve tries to figure out the best place to start.

"The middle. Best place to see everything."

He chooses a spot and starts to jab at a seam between two boards. After about ten minutes of pounding with his flimsy tool, part of a board splinters off. Steve wedges the blade into the crease he's created, wiggling and pushing to work a board free...

The blade snaps off, leaving him holding the broken handle in his hand.

"Fuck! Now wadda I do?"

He stares at the useless tool, and lets despair wash over him for a moment before collecting himself. Looking at the sturdier metal of the handle, he clenches his jaw in resolve, then jams the broken end of the handle into the gap created by the warped blade that lies discarded next to him. As he pushes against his make shift lever, the metal bends slightly, but the damaged board starts to lift away. Throwing the handle aside, Steve starts pulling at the loose board. The floor groans, and the nails squeak a protest, but the first board is soon free.

It's too dark for him to see anything through the small hole, so Steve sets out to enlarge it. Pulling a second and third board free takes less time, but the shadows are lengthening by the time he's finished. The plummeting temperature sees Steve hurry to light the small fire. As he warms his cold hands on the eminating warmth of the small flames, Steve looks for anything he can use as an improvised torch.

He picks up one of the discarded floor boards. It's not ideal, but he believes he can make it work. Holding the end of the plank in the flames, Steve teases and coaxes the embers, trying to get the wood to catch. It's slow going, but eventually the wood begins to smoulder. He gently blows on the small glow until flames begin to lick at the darkened wood. It won't provide much light but it's better than nothing.

Lying on his stomach, Steve prays he doesn't inadvertantly extinguish his make-shift torch. He carefully lowers it into the hole and sees... Nothing! The small flame splutters and dies. Steve pushes the board down further, praying he'll see something, anything, by the light of the dying ember. 'CRACK!' Sparks jump as the wood hits stone.

"NO! No, no, nonono!"

He leaps to his feet and quickly rips away four more boards, desparation lending him the strength to achieve in minutes, what had previously taken him all afternoon to do. As the light from the last glowing shards fades away, Steve feels physically sick.

Stone! Goddamn stone! Another day wasted!

"FUCK! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

He wants- No he needs to get out!

"Tomorrow! Tomorrow, if I don't find anything by lunch, I'm taking my chances."

He drags the mattress across the room and curls up in front of the fire. With a small sad smile, Steve starts to drift off to sleep,

"Goodnight Darlin'. Maybe I'll see you t'morrow."