Page 160 of The Most Dangerous Games

“You need only concern yourself with your own demons at the moment,” Hillshire says. “You know the unfortunate expression of modern times, Mr. McHenry? ‘You do you.’ Surely you recall sharing with your interviewer back in Ohio that you detest confined spaces. That’s what is waiting for you on the other side of this door. Do you remain convinced you can handle this?”

Jack looks down at his tattoo.

“I don’t lose,” he says.

“If you come to find you can’t handle this, we of course can let you out of here,” Hillshire says. “But just know that once you step back outside, you will have lost. No arguments. No second chances. No red button.”

“I won’t leave the room,” Jack says. “And I won’t lose.”

He gives Hillshire a long look.

Jack’s voice drops. “How confined.”

Ward looks at the door like he doesn’t like the answer either.

“A coffin,” he says.

Jack holds still for a moment. Then he nods once, like it’s a decision and a promise at the same time.

“I’m on the one-yard line,” Jack says.

He takes a deep breath, then lets it out. Then does the same thing again. Jack knows how important it’s going to be for him to control his breathing once he’s inside. It’s a tool he’s used before in moments of great stress.

And moments of great fear.

I had no fear jumping out of airplanes, he thinks, not even the first jump without a trainer.

Maybe because all he had around him was space.

And air.

This is different.

He turns to Ward: “Open it.”

Patrick Arrasmith

111.

The box into which the guard lowers Jack is smaller than a coffin. At first there’s room to breathe.

Then Jack hears a low whirring. The walls shift. Telescoping panels slide inward until his shoulders are pinned and his knees can’t rise. His arms are trapped at his sides, not quite crushed, but close enough that panic lights him up.

Even with Jack knowing he could call this off before the guard leaves the room if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to, even if he already feels he’s suffocating. Even with no lid to the coffin.

Jack can look up, and out. He can see the ceiling. He can see the rim of the opening above his face.

He just can’t get out.

Can’t move either his arms or legs enough to climb out, even if he wanted to.

“The boss will be watching, and listening,” the guard says. “He told me to give you a safe word you can use. One word.”

Jack’s heart is already racing. He is starting to sweat, already feeling he’s about to be sick.

“What word?” he asks.