A head stuffed with inquiries and confusion. A pair of lungs seemingly empty. A heart filled with dread and about to burst. Perhaps it might sound poetic on paper, but to Harold, it felt like a horror story. His body felt filled with adrenaline yet sluggish, in a daze yet entirely alert. All the contradictions that were made up of this new truth he had discovered couldn't possibly be real, but somehow they were. A flood of emotions threatened to overwhelm him entirely. Questions barely had time to surface in his head before they were overwhelmed by more, an unceasing flow of impossible askings. Did his parents know he was gone? Would his modern literature professor notice his absence? What would happen to him? Where was he? How would he ever get home again? How-

"[i]No. Stop thinking like that,[/i]" he thought to himself. "[i]Breathe[/i]." He didn't even realize he was hyperventilating until he had stopped to think. His father's voice rung true in his ears, spouting cliché phrases that only meant something when they needed to. "The best way to control your situation is to control yourself." Harold walked back to the bed he had woken up on and sat down on the mattress, if it could even be called that. "In, and out. In... and out." He waited until he had regained control of his lungs and his senses. "[b]Well then,[/b]" he mumbled to himself. "[b]What to do now?[/b]"

Well, there was a lot he could do, he soon realized. He could further examine the walls and confines of the box they had been locked up in, perhaps to search for some hidden compartment or a way out of here. Another option would be to take a closer look at the television, where he and the rest of his new boxmates had received their only clue as to what was going on. Or perhaps, the best option would be to introduce himself to the other occupants of their room... cell... box? He still wasn't sure of the classification of his confines. Either way, he realized that taking charge and stepping out to make friends could easily help him to seem knowledgable about the whole situation. Or would taking the time to examine and take in his surroundings give the same impression, along with providing actual information?

"[b]Screw it,[/b]" he stated, under his breath. "[b]Hopefully, I won't be in here long enough for it to even matter.[/b]" A nonchalant statement, made with surprising force. He stood up, fully invested in what he was going to do. Beginning over by the television, he began to examine the walls carefully for any noticeable indentations. He was counting on the hope that the others would notice and join his search. "[i]The more eyes we have on these walls, the quicker we can find something and get out of here.[/i]" Unless, of course, there was nothing to find. Harold still had a hunch that something eerie was going on here, something that couldn't be explained by the sciences he so often studied. Yet, if there was something to be found, he would forever despise himself for missing it. With that decided, he continued to scour every last detail on the walls, hoping beyond hope to find something, anything.