Seven months. That's how long I was kept captive. Locked in a room with a bed, refrigerator, and adjoining bathroom, I was instructed to eat, bathe, and behave. I received meals, laundered clothes, and toiletries through a cat door, never knowing if it was day or night. The last time I saw the face of my abductor was when he dragged me fighting from the trunk of his car. My only solace was Mason--one of the other kidnapped teens--and our pact to one day escape together. But when that day finally came, I had to leave him behind. Now that I'm home, my parents and friends want everything to be like it was before I left. But they don't understand that dining out and shopping trips can't heal what's broken inside me. I barely leave my bedroom. Therapists are clueless and condescending. So I start my own form of therapy--but writing about my experience awakens uncomfortable memories, ones that should've stayed buried. When I ask the detectives assigned to my case about Mason, I get an answer I don't believe--that there were no traces of any other kidnapped kids. But I distinctly remember the screams, holding hands with Mason through a hole in my wall, and sharing a chocolate bar. I don't believe he wasn't really there and I'm determined to find him. How far will I have to go to uncover the truth of what happened--and will it break me forever?