The Quiet Room: A Rabbits Novel

1

WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?

The night was clear and cool, and although the distant lights from a handful of determined stars did their best to cut through the dense urban haze of the city, it was dark.

The kind of dark where all kinds of horrible shit could happen.

The tester stepped from the passenger door of a black SUV and instinctively pulled up the collar of her gray jacket against a light rain that hadn’t started to fall, but would do so presently.

She was on her way to administer the test.

She hadn’t tested anyone new in over a year. The fact that she was doing so now was none of her concern. She was hired to administer the test, nothing more.

Ask the questions.

Record the answers.

Submit the card.

Glass of wine.

That last one wasn’t part of the protocol, of course, but it had been a long day and she hadn’t had a drink for weeks. She’d asked for something on the plane, but they weren’t serving alcohol for some reason. The lack of alcohol wasn’t the end of the world. It was a short flight, two hours from San Francisco to Seattle, but still, flying without drinking felt almost uncivilized.

She’d been to Seattle once before, as a child. It was the first time she’d seen an ocean. She remembered picking up broken seashells and flipping over rocks to chase the tiny crabs that would appear from the sand beneath the rocks as if by magic.

She wondered, as she approached a wooden door in the middle of a low red-brick building, if she’d have time to visit the Pike Place Market. Or maybe the Space Needle? She knocked twice, and waited for a response.

Come in, said a low raspy voice from the other side.

She opened the door and stepped into a small waiting area.

There was a man standing there. He was about forty years old, tall and athletic, with a thick frame and curly black hair. He looked like a generic government agent straight out of central casting except for the fact that his dark gray suit fit him a whole lot better than she’d ever seen on an agent. There was something sharp and dangerous about his eyes.

He handed her a clipboard that included a pen along with a Phase Four testing form, then turned and started walking away.

Phase Four. They didn’t get many of those.

She pressed the clipboard against her leg and followed.

The man led her down a dark, narrow hallway that eventually dog-legged into another slightly wider and much brighter hall. There were a number of doors on either side, each labeled with a wide strip of white tape featuring a collection of arcane symbols written in black Sharpie. The tester thought she may have recognized some of the symbols, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She knew the rooms were empty.

That wasn’t why she was here. Not this time.

Her guide stopped at the end of the hallway in front of a wide gray metal door, knocked, and then nodded at the tester.

How long? she asked.

As long as it takes. He turned and walked back down the hall.

When she could no longer hear the sound of his footsteps, the tester took a slow deep breath and opened the door.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but eventually everything slipped into focus.

The room was about twenty-five feet square. A small rectangular metal table with two matching chairs sat in the center, and the walls were covered with dark gray soundproofing foam. Seated at the table in the metal chair farthest from the door was the subject of the test: a woman wearing black-framed Ray-Ban glasses, faded jeans, and a loose-fitting cream-colored long-sleeved shirt. Her long auburn hair had been pulled back into a thick ponytail, her arms were crossed, and she looked pissed off. The tester figured she had to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty years old—thirty-seven, she thought. She could check the file, of course, but she liked to guess.

The tester took a seat across from the subject, set the clipboard down on the table, and removed a pen from where it had been clipped against the testing form.

Who the fuck are you? the subject said, shifting slightly in her chair.

The tester removed a small tablet from her pocket, hit a few virtual buttons, and set it down on the table between them.

I’m sorry to keep you waiting, the tester said. I had to fly in from California.

What am I doing here?

Please, just do your best to relax, this won’t take very long. I’m here to administer a quick test.

What the fuck are you talking about? What test?

All we need you to do is look at a few photographs, answer some questions, and you’ll be free to go.

That’s it?

That’s it.

You know I’m going to call the cops as soon as I get out of here.

Of course. Do you mind if we get started?

The subject leaned back in her chair. Fine.

What’s your favorite color?

Really?

I just need to get a baseline.

Children have favorite colors, not adults.

I’m afraid I will need an answer. It’s actually not—

Green.

Great. Thank you. The tester picked up the pen and checked a couple of boxes on the first page of the form, then swiped up on the tablet to reveal a photograph of a man wearing wraparound black sunglasses.

Do you recognize this person?

Seriously? the subject said.

Nothing from the tester.

That’s Bono. From the band U2.

Great. The tester swiped to the next photo: a modern house on a lake surrounded by dense, dark green woods. And this?

That’s my house. I grew up there.

The tester nodded, made a couple of notes on the form, then swiped to the next photo: a lime-green AMC Pacer with Washington plates.

That’s my car. I mean, it was my car, in high school. Why are you asking me about this shit?

The tester ignored the question, made a couple of notes, then swiped again, this time revealing a photo of a small ceramic tray. It looked like it had been designed to hold soap, but it was filled with a variety of tarnished silver rings.

Looks like a soap tray.

That’s it?

The subject nodded.

It doesn’t look familiar?

No. Should it?

The tester smiled. There is no should or shouldn’t, only what you remember.

She swiped to the next image: an extremely detailed abstract line drawing featuring tiny shapes and symbols that upon closer examination appeared to compose a dense, intricate maze.

I bought that at an auction last year in Vancouver. It’s hanging in my bedroom. How the fuck did you get these pictures?

Just try to focus on the test, please.

Why did you say ‘remember’? Am I supposed to remember that soap tray?

The tester smiled. This is going to go a lot faster if you do your best to remain calm.

The subject jumped out of her chair and stood. No way, lady. I need you to tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.

You didn’t react this way to the first four pictures I showed you.

What do you mean?

It took you five pictures to get angry. Why do you think that is?

What? the subject said, her voice cracking as she stared down at her hands, which had begun shaking. She slowly sat back down. I don’t know what’s happening. I find it hard to remember certain things. I was kidnapped, I think.

Would you like a glass of water?

Is that part of the test?

The tester just smiled.

What’s going on?

If you just relax and answer my questions to the very best of your ability, you’ll be out of here in ten minutes. You have my word.

The subject took a deep breath and exhaled. I’m fine. Let’s just get it over with.

The tester thought that the subject looked worn out and made a note to speak with the administrator about the manner in which the woman had been secured and transferred for the test.

The subject shifted in her seat. Please, hurry the fuck up.

The tester swiped up to the next photo. It was a medium-sized dog with a ball in its mouth. The photograph looked like it had been taken on a beach somewhere.

It’s a dog.

That’s all?

Some kind of spaniel—a springer, I think.

The tester made a few notes on the form, then flipped the page and made a few more.

Can you please hurry? the subject said as she brought one of her knees up to her chest.

Do you need a break?

The subject brought her leg back down and leaned forward. I’m fine.

Picture somebody drowning. Now, you’re the only person who can save this person, but you know that, if you rescue them, they will go on to harm a number of animals. What do you do?

What the fuck kind of question is that?

I don’t choose the questions, I’m afraid.

That’s easy. Let the fucker drown.

The tester checked a couple of boxes on the form, then continued. Are you now, or have you ever been, pregnant?

Brittany.

Pardon me?

Brittany spaniel. The dog. It’s not a springer spaniel, it’s a Brittany.

Anything else?

What do you mean?

You don’t recognize that dog?

No. I mean…Can I see it again?

I’m afraid not.

I’m not pregnant.

The tester made a few notes, then swiped to the next photo: a close-up of a tarot card or something similar, labeled The Traveler.

Do you recognize this card?

The subject shook her head.

Could you please answer verbally?

Why? You’re not recording this, are you?

No, we’re not, but I am measuring and recording your physiological response to each of the questions.

How the fuck are you doing that?

The tester smiled. That’s my job. She tried to make her smile as unthreatening as possible. A welcoming and authentic smile was something she’d been working on for a while. She made a note to check her smile when she watched the footage later.

Of course they were recording the interview.

The subject appeared unnerved. She was visibly agitated, fidgeting in her chair.

Just two more questions, the tester said.

Thank fuck.

The tester smiled and leaned forward. Are you playing Rabbits?

Something flashed across the subject’s face, just for a second—maybe not recognition, but something else. The tester made another note to check it out when she reviewed the footage later.

What the fuck is Rabbits? the subject asked. How can somebody play an animal?

Okay, the tester said. We’re almost finished.

The subject exhaled slowly and finally nodded. She appeared to be doing her best to remain calm.

The tester turned off her tablet and smiled. Last question. What’s your name?

My name is Emily Connors. What’s your fucking name?

The tester stared at Emily for a long moment, then slipped the cap onto the felt pen she was holding, with a click that sounded much louder than it seemed it should.

Thank you so much for coming.

At this point, the man in the dark gray suit reentered the room and handed Emily a black hood. You’ll need to put this on, he said.

No way.

Option two it is. He pulled out a syringe and took a step toward Emily.

Fine. Emily snatched the hood from the man’s hand and slipped it over her head.

The tester leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. She was going to have to hire a dogsitter. It looked like she wouldn’t be heading home to California anytime soon.

This one was going to be trouble.

2

THE PENIS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

Rowan Chess had been having the strangest dreams lately.

Last night he’d dreamt that he was composing an opera about an unhatched dinosaur egg. The night before, he’d had a nightmare. Unlike the dinosaur egg, the nightmare was connected to something that had happened in real life.

Rowan was nineteen years old at the time and living in Vancouver, Canada. One night, while he was walking home from rehearsal listening to a song that his band had recently recorded, he felt a rush of water splash his face. He was startled, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The night was cool and dark, and the water was unexpectedly warm. But when Rowan touched his cheek and pulled back his hand, he realized that it wasn’t water.

It was blood.

He looked down at the sidewalk.

There, on the concrete directly in front of him, was a person—or rather, what had once been a person but was now just a pile of broken meat and shiny white bone.

The spray of blood hitting Rowan’s face must have been preceded by some kind of sound, but with his band’s music blasting in his headphones, he hadn’t heard a thing.

Rowan turned and was surprised to discover that he wasn’t alone.

He was looking into the faces of four or five other people who’d clearly seen what had just happened. They just stared—mouths open, eyes wide—seemingly searching for anything that might help them make sense of the tall, long-haired young man standing in the middle of the sidewalk, completely covered in blood.

Rowan sidestepped the mess of wet and bones and kept moving. He didn’t hear the people calling after him as he walked away.

After a long shower followed by a pot of ramen noodles and frozen vegetables, Rowan read half of a graphic novel about a couple of sexy teenage serial killers—called, imaginatively, Sexy Teenage Serial Killers—and went to bed early.

He never mentioned the incident to a single soul.

—

Rowan grew up in a small two-floor bungalow on a heavily wooded three-acre lot just outside of Bellingham, Washington. His father was a geologist who specialized in industrial minerals and their applications, and his mother kept the house together and worked as a part-time cruciverbalist, designing crossword puzzles for local and national newspapers. She’d experienced a brief moment of notoriety when she used the clue: The___ mightier than the sword, which resulted in the word PENIS appearing at the top of the puzzle. She said it was accidental and promised her editor that it wouldn’t happen again, but Rowan could tell by the expression on her face when she was apologizing to the man on the phone that his mother had done it on purpose.

Sometime around the age of fifteen, Rowan began experiencing a nagging and persistent feeling that something was wrong.

He’d started to suspect that he didn’t fit into his own life.

He confessed this feeling to his mother, who just smiled and told him everybody went through it; that what he was experiencing was simply the onset of puberty.

But it felt more than biological to Rowan.

It felt primal.

Sometimes it was intense, like there was an ocean waiting to break free from his mind, and other times it was nothing more than a slight sense of unease. But the alienation was always there—a constant gnawing pressure.

Rowan’s sense of disconnection from both himself and other people continued well into adulthood. Once, when describing the feeling to a therapist friend of his mother’s, Rowan said it felt like he was living in a photograph that was just a little bit blurry—not indistinct enough to completely lose the outline of the subject, but fuzzy enough that you’d have trouble focusing. The therapist nodded thoughtfully, asked questions in all the right places, and then prescribed a mild antidepressant.

—

Rowan spent the next few years learning how to pretend he belonged, and by the time he’d graduated university—a few years after the incident on the sidewalk—he was able to fake it pretty well. After school, when Rowan moved to Seattle and rose to the top of his field in architectural design with a focus on theme parks and immersive theater experiences, nobody seemed to recognize the fact that, deep inside his heart, Rowan continued to feel like a stranger in his own life.

He’d had few meaningful relationships over the years. There was Mona, his first kiss in seventh grade, followed by Monica, the bass player from Boulder, Colorado, he’d lived with for a couple of years in Vancouver, and, finally, a woman named Madison whom Rowan had briefly dated while working on a monorail station enhancement project a year and a half ago.

There had been no one since.

He’d never tried online dating, but when Taylor—a friend from way back in their band days—suggested it, Rowan agreed to give it a shot. Taylor had met her wife through an app, and even if Rowan didn’t find his soul mate, Taylor said, at least Rowan had a shot at finding somebody whose name didn’t start with the letter M.

So Rowan tried swiping right for love.

He met dozens of women through the two most popular online dating apps, and some of the introductory dinners had gone so well that Rowan (or his date) had suggested they do it again.

After one extraordinary dinner followed by half a dozen pretty good drinks, Rowan ended up getting intimate with one of the women: a DJ named Hank (short for Henrietta) from somewhere in Michigan (Ann Arbor, maybe?).

They’d had a lot of fun and agreed to meet up again the following night.

The next evening, Rowan was sipping a glass of wine and watching Hank get ready for dinner in her apartment—which looked like it had been decorated using cast-off furniture from the set of Boogie Nights—when he started imagining a life with her. She was unconventionally beautiful, with big, fuzzy blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a hypnotically curvy figure. Rowan watched Hank apply her mascara, and as she moved her hips back and forth to The Long Run by the Eagles, he imagined what it would be like to have this woman come home and kiss the back of his neck while he was barbecuing cedar plank salmon and sipping a beer. He smiled. She was incredible. That’s when she turned to him and said, We’re going to do a shitload of coke tonight.

Rowan swore off online dating forever.

But a few months later, after a couple of glasses of small-batch whiskey at a friend’s gallery opening, Rowan found himself unable to sleep. He opened one of his (now five) dating apps, and began to swipe.

After exchanging a few messages, a woman named Ramona invited Rowan to an escape room dinner party in an extremely wealthy gated community called The Highlands. Apparently the emcee, a television actor, was a friend of hers.

Rowan wasn’t sure about Ramona, but there was no way he was going to turn down an escape room. The party aspect he could do without, but the possibility of taking part in any kind of puzzle-solving was exciting. His mother’s love of puzzles and games had been amplified in Rowan, and he almost never turned down an opportunity to play.

—

The rules are simple, but this isn’t a conventional escape room mystery party. The tall brunette was impressive in a tight, two-toned dark gray tuxedo that made her look a little like James Bond—if James Bond were played by a six-foot-two Natalie Portman. This is a Heist-and-Seek Party, which means you’re not trying to escape anything this evening. Rather, you’ll be trying to find something very special.

There were murmurs from the crowd.

Rowan looked around. There were somewhere between fifty and a hundred people gathered outside an enormous residence that reminded him of a crime lord’s mansion in an old Michael Mann movie. There was a pool, some fake palm trees, and an elaborate fountain featuring a ten-foot-tall marble angel with long, thick arms that didn’t quite match the scale of her body.

About thirty yards away, a whole bunch of shiny vintage cars were parked in front of a large six-door garage. Rowan wasn’t an automotive expert by any means, but he thought he recognized a few iconic makes and models, including a red Ferrari, a silver Aston Martin, and some kind of shiny black American muscle car from the sixties.

Rowan figured that whoever built the place must have made their money in the late eighties or early nineties, and although the current occupants were clearly trying to downplay the ostentatious excess connected to the era of its construction, there was only so much you could hide when you were dealing with gaudy Corinthian pillars and marble fountains. A very strong current of eighties drug dealer kitsch ran underneath the almost tasteful veneer.

Can you believe we’re actually here? Ramona said, grabbing Rowan’s arm like they’d been dating for years. He didn’t appreciate the faux intimacy. They’d just met outside, when Ramona handed Rowan his ticket.

He was already annoyed.

Ramona was a little over five feet tall, early thirties, pale and thin, with straight dark brown hair and soft blue eyes. She wore too-tight faded jeans with the top button undone, dark red cowboy boots, and a Black Sabbath T-shirt (from Target or Urban Outfitters). She spoke with a light accent—possibly Mediterranean or maybe somewhere in New England. Rowan couldn’t quite place it.

I hope we win, she said. I heard the prizes are insane. Chris Martin sang to a girl at the last party.

You’ve been to one of these things before?

No, but my friend Lilith works them all the time. That’s her over there. Ramona pointed at the tall woman in the tux.

You are going to be presented with ten exciting and engaging challenges, Lilith continued. Inside the foyer, you’ll find your welcome packs, which include everything you’ll need to solve the mystery. She bowed deeply at the waist before dramatically tossing her hands into the twilit sky, as if starting an illegal drag race. Good luck, everyone!

The enthusiastic crowd started moving toward a set of large open French doors that led into the foyer of the house.

Let’s go, Ramona said, grabbing Rowan’s hand. I don’t wanna miss out. These swag bags are bomb.

Rowan did his best to keep up as she pulled him through the crowd. Ramona was a people-parting professional—focused and incredibly adept at avoiding collisions while continuing to press forward. They made it into the foyer in less than a minute.

—

Whoa, those look big, Ramona said as she elbowed her way past a couple of the other guests in order to gain access to a long wooden table filled with the welcome packs Lilith had mentioned in her speech.

Ramona snatched one of the dozens of medium-sized black-and-white reusable bags from the table, handed it to Rowan, and then grabbed another bag for herself.

Inside the bag was a bunch of free stuff, including two half bottles of wine, caviar, a Swiss Army knife, a Kindle, and numerous gift cards to places both useful and completely impractical but cool. The centerpiece of the gift bag was a small, rectangular dark wooden box. A tiny flower symbol had been stamped onto the lid in shimmering pearly white ink.

Ramona leaned over Rowan’s shoulder as he opened the box and revealed its contents. Inside was a small postcard. Written inside the lid, in a font that looked like Futura Bold, was a three-word message in white ink: Find the Orchid.

What the hell does that mean? Ramona asked.

Rowan didn’t answer, because the question didn’t warrant a response.

She eventually answered her own question with another. I guess we try to find an orchid?

Rowan was beginning to feel like the date was a mistake.

Rowan found Ramona somewhat attractive physically, but she was irritating. He briefly considered making some excuse and leaving, but there was another matter to consider.

He wasn’t going anywhere until he found the orchid.

Once his imagination had been fired up by something, Rowan was the kind of person who needed to see things through.

I think we should work together, Ramona said as she shoved her own gift bag into an enormous black leather purse.

Rowan forced a smile.

It looked like he’d have to deal with Ramona, at least for the time being.

On the front of the postcard was a symbol synonymous with army hospitals and other medical institutions: two snakes winding up a pole surmounted by a pair of wings. On the back, written in freehand script, was a message: Follow the map, find the orchid.

What map? Ramona asked, leaning her chin on Rowan’s shoulder.

It must have something to do with this image on the front.

You wanna skip the scavenger hunt thing and get a drink? Ramona asked, a hopeful, almost pleading look in her eyes.

Rowan shook his head.

Ramona grabbed a couple of glasses of champagne from a nearby server’s tray and handed one to Rowan. Okay, then, let’s Indiana Jones this fucker. What’s with the doctor snake symbol?

It’s a caduceus.

If you say so, smarty-pants.

She was infuriating.

Hermes carries it, in Greek mythology. Rowan flipped the postcard over.

What are you doing?

Checking for hidden text or images.

Look at you, so professional. She took a huge sip of champagne and then burped quietly into her clenched palm. So, you think we need to find a medicine cabinet or something?

Too obvious. Do you see anything related to Hermes anywhere?

Hermes? Like a bag or a scarf or something?

He was about to admonish her for mispronouncing the designer’s name, but she was actually on to something. An Hermès bag containing the next clue would be perfect. That’s a good idea, he said. Let’s take a look around.

Ramona smiled and squeezed his arm. We’re totally gonna win.

Rowan didn’t mind the feeling of her touching his arm.

Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.

Rowan led Ramona through the foyer, looking for anything that might provide some kind of clue. The only way to leave the foyer and progress into the house proper was to pass through an impromptu checkpoint that had been set up specifically for this event. Two large security guards loomed, looking bored as hell, one on either side of the checkpoint—an access card reader on a stand between them.

It looks like you need a card to move on to the next clue, Rowan heard someone say.

You sure you don’t wanna hit the bar for a couple of stronger drinks? Ramona said. It might help us think.

Rowan ignored her and made his way over to a number of small dioramas that had been set up on faux marble pedestals at various points around the room. There was a bear threatening a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, a shark turning to attack a large fish Rowan didn’t recognize, a small model of the solar system, a Nativity scene, and a few others. There didn’t appear to be anything medical or Hermes-related.

Rowan approached the pedestal that contained the model of our solar system.

Mercury, he said.

What?

Hermes is Greek. Mercury is the Roman equivalent.

Is that helpful?

Maybe, he said. I’m going outside.

Oh, she said. Okay.

They made their way out of the crowded foyer and back onto the wide lawn where the woman named Lilith had addressed them earlier.

There. Rowan pointed in the direction of the garage. That car on the far right, do you recognize it?

The Cougar? Ramona asked.

Yeah. Is that a Mercury?

Sure is, she said. 1967.

You’re positive?

Could be a ’69, if you’re lucky.

Rowan ignored her joke and started walking over to the garage area.

I grew up with two older brothers. They know a lot about cars, Ramona said as she jogged to catch up with Rowan.

There. He pointed through the open passenger-side window of the car. The glove box was open, and there was a stack of security access cards sitting on the edge atop a small handwritten sign that said: Take One.

You’re a genius, Ramona said.

Rowan smiled. He didn’t know much about cars, but it had been a simple connection to make. He was proud of himself. He hadn’t solved a puzzle like that one in a long time. He glanced back in the direction of the main house. There was nobody approaching the garage area. It looked like Rowan had been the first person to figure it out.

Back in the foyer, Rowan swiped their access card through the security card reader and a tiny light turned from red to green. The two security guards stepped aside and allowed Rowan and Ramona to pass between them into a wide hallway.

In the middle of the hall, just past the checkpoint, was a small wooden table. Sitting on the table was a small stack of postcards. On the back of the postcards, written in the same freehand script as before, was the message: Follow the map, find the orchid. Rowan flipped over the card to reveal a second image. It was the graphic of a tiny blue-and-white Hello, My Name Is _____­_____­_ sticker with the name left blank.

What do you think it means? Ramona asked.

No idea, Rowan replied.

There were murmurs and rumbling from the crowd as they noticed that somebody had made it past the first security checkpoint. It wouldn’t be long before other people started to put it together.

Rowan grabbed Ramona’s arm and led her down the hall. If they were going to win, they would have to hurry.

At the end of the hallway, a set of double doors opened into a large game room. There was a collection of old stand-up arcade games against the far wall, including Ms. Pac-Man, Tempest, Galaxian, and a bunch of pinball machines Rowan didn’t recognize. In the center of the room was an enormous billiards table, covered by dark red felt that made Rowan think of blood. On the right-hand wall was a set of double doors flanked by two more security guards, and a second card reader sitting on a pedestal.

But it was the left-hand side of the room that was clearly the focal point.

It was an exact replica of the bar from Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining.

Ooh, Ramona said. I’m going to play Pac-Man.

Rowan didn’t bother to respond. He knew Pac-Man wasn’t related to what came next. It had something to do with the bartender, dressed exactly like the character from The Shining, in a burgundy tux with wide red satin lapels, a black bow tie, and a white shirt.

Rowan walked over and sat down on the barstool directly across from the bartender.

Hi, could I please get a couple of gin and tonics? Rowan asked.

No response from the bartender.

Oh, I get it. There’s a code or something I have to say?

The bartender remained silent, a wry smile on his face.

Rowan looked over at Ramona, who had already moved from Ms. Pac-Man to one of the pinball machines, then he turned back to the bartender.

The Shining was one of Rowan’s favorite films of all time. He toyed with the postcard from the wooden table as he admired the authentic details of the bar from the Overlook Hotel. Whoever had designed the space had done an amazing job. The commitment to detail was incredible. As Rowan was looking over the bottles behind the bartender, it came to him. He glanced down at the image on the postcard: the tiny blue-and-white Hello, My Name Is sticker.

Hi, Lloyd, Rowan said, using the name of the bartender from The Shining.

Hello, Mr. Torrance, the bartender responded immediately. What’ll it be?

Gin and tonic?

I’m afraid all we have at the moment is this, sir, the bartender said, and passed Rowan another security card.

Is this why we’re here? Rowan asked.

Nothing from the bartender.

Ramona came bouncing over from the arcade games.

What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?

I think we’ve found the next clue, Rowan said, holding up the security card.

Cool. How the hell did you do that?

"You have to know the bartender’s name from The Shining."

That’s a movie, right?

It’s also a novel.

Did you google it?

A man and woman entered the room laughing. They’d figured out the first clue.

No, Rowan said. Come on. We need to hurry.

Rowan used the security card to get past the guards standing on the right-hand side of the room, and led Ramona through a set of wide double doors into another long hallway.

That hallway led to a bathroom where they found another postcard. Rowan solved that puzzle using a rudimentary code he discovered in the pattern of the shower curtain, and they were on to the next clue.

The next four postcards led to a series of fairly simple clues that Rowan solved easily, but the eighth postcard was open to two completely different interpretations and Rowan ended up choosing the wrong one, which allowed another couple of guests to catch up.

By the time Rowan figured out that the eighth clue referred to a garden gnome and not garden gomae (Japanese spinach salad), two other couples were right behind them.

Rowan and Ramona were still in the lead, but barely.

The garden gnome clue led them past another checkpoint into another long hallway (this house was filled with long halls).

In the middle of the hallway was an old vending machine, or, more precisely, an old cigarette machine. Rather than buttons, this machine had nine long handles that you were meant to pull after you’d inserted the requisite number of coins. The handles of these types of machines normally represented different brands or strengths of cigarette, but in this case, they all contained the same thing: a postcard. Above each of the handles was the message that had been written on the back of every postcard they’d discovered so far: Follow the map, find the orchid. There was a sticker just above the ninth lever that read: Out of Order, August 2006.

Written on a card in the middle of the machine was the following message:

Pull the lever that represents your home. You may pull one lever only.

"What the