JV Hampton-VanSant

You know this game.

Another thing you know.

The odds won't be kind to you, the hapless victim.

Still, there's usually a razor-slim path to victory.

It's no fun if you die right away.

That's why the first choice is always an easy one.

Clearly, anyone still hanging around the projector booth and the popcorn stand is dead.

Finding their gory, jackknifed corpses will prove quite dramatic if you manage to make it to the lobby.

So, no point in screaming.

That leaves the key.

Which was definitely that metal object you spat out with the popcorn earlier.

It gleams dully in the half-chewed kernels oozing under the seat before you.

You test your shackles.

The wrist cuffs are tight, cutting off circulation.

But with dim relief, you discover you've been sitting on chains.

Your right shackle has an arm's length of extra give, enough to reach under the seat.

Your hand feels deadened and oddly stiff.

Your whole body, actually.

But you twist forward and tweeze the key with your fingertips.

Something under the chair bear-traps down on your wrist.