With everyone now freed from their chains, the Typist turned her attention to the small purse hanging off her shoulder. She ran her fingers lightly over the soft brown leather, allowing herself a moment to wonder for the first time since awakening why she couldn't remember even her own name, let alone how she had gotten into this predicament. She hoped that maybe something in the purse would stir her memory, but found no revelations inside- only, to her immense relief, her pair of wire framed glasses. She lifted them to her eyes, and the gray haze surrounding her finally came into focus. The relief was tempered by revulsion as she was now able to see the grimy room in all its disgusting detail, and a quick scan of the cramped space revealed no apparent doors or windows. The typist was far past ready to move on from this oppressive room, and it seemed the others felt the same. Not wanting to spend a second longer here, she joined the men in their frantic search for an exit. 

Where was the way out? 

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