Everyone set down their glasses and cutlery and turned their chairs toward the screen. Dad tapped a few buttons on his tablet, and the image flickered before sharpening into focus.

"Highlights From the Past 72 Hours." The title was bold and red.

On screen, I was on my knees, tongue pressed against the joint of a water pipe, lapping up the droplets that seeped through. The water tasted of rust and rot. But I drank greedily, desperately. I just wanted to stay alive.

A low murmur of appreciation rippled across the lawn.

"Oh wow, look at that survival instinct. It's almost perfect."

A woman with glasses pushed her frames up her nose, eyes glued to the screen. "The way she's positioned, she's completely let go of any sense of dignity. It's just pure animal instinct."

Dad stood beside the screen like a museum curator, laser pointer in hand. The red dot landed on my dirty face.

"Everyone, pay close attention to her eyes." He traced a small circle around my eye sockets with the laser.

"See how her pupils are blown wide? There's nothing in her expression except thirst. That's raw, unfiltered survival instinct. We've been living in civilization for so long, most of us have forgotten what that even looks like."

Raw survival instinct? I was crouched in that corner, drinking filthy water, thinking about nothing except whether drinking a little less might mean a little more for Mom and Dad. Love and sacrifice were all I knew.

And to them, that was animal instinct?

The footage cut to another clip, from the last time I got sick. I lay curled up in my tattered blankets, fever burning so hot my face was flushed a violent red.

I was muttering nonsense, whimpering, "Mom, it hurts. Mom, please."

The guests let out a collective sigh.

"Oh goodness, that looks awful. Is she actually going to be okay?" A woman in a floral dress wrinkled her nose, holding a cookie.

Mom lounged in her chair, swirling her wine glass with a relaxed smile. "Don't worry. I know exactly what I'm doing."

Her voice was breezy, almost casual, like she was talking about trimming a houseplant. "I watched the whole thing. The fever was just her immune system rebuilding itself.

"Her body can only break through its limits if it's been pushed right up against death. Kids these days are so used to being pampered that they can't handle a little fever. How are they supposed to handle something like this when the time comes?"

I listened to Mom describe my suffering like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and my chest tightened until I could barely breathe.

I had thought they were out there risking their lives, searching for medicine, dodging danger just to keep me safe. So, I bit down on my blanket and swallowed every cry, terrified of worrying them.

But she had been watching the whole time, watching me writhe like a dying animal, right there on that screen. They had recorded every second of it, turned my worst moments into something to show off at dinner parties.

The bald man at the table raised his glass with an approving nod. "Mrs. Sands, you really are something. That kind of nerve is not something the rest of us can pull off."

Dad chuckled and switched to the next slide. A red line graph filled the screen, labeled "Supply Drop Records."

"Here's the thing, though. That can of food wasn't actually the last one." He pointed to a data point on the graph, a hint of pride creeping into his tone.

"There was still one more tin of spam left. I told her it was the last one in the world. That without it, all three of us would starve.

"That was the 'desperation threshold' test. I wanted to see what she would choose. Eat her parents' share to survive, or go without and sacrifice herself."

The guests nodded along, eyes wide with understanding. Someone started clapping. The others joined in, a smattering of applause drifting across the lawn.

"Now that is a real experiment into human nature," the bald man called out, lifting his glass high.

Every glass clinked together. The sound rang out, sharp and bright, cutting through the warm evening air. Everything about this evening, the food, the wine, the laughter, was built on top of me.

Mom took a sip of her wine, a small crease forming between her brows. "That said, the data has been a little flat the past few days. She just stays curled up in the same corner, not moving. I think she's adapted to this level of starvation. Her body's gone into some kind of conservation mode."

She sounded mildly annoyed. "This kid adapts too well. Sometimes that's actually a problem."

It almost sounded like surviving was inconveniencing her.

Dad set down his glass and straightened his collar. A flicker of excitement crossed his face.

"Well then. No point waiting." He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

"Let's go ahead and run the 'zombie siege' simulation. Once we get past that last wall in her head, we can finish the whole thing ahead of schedule."

He rubbed his hands together, energized, and strode toward the massive control panel. "The real show is about to start, folks. Keep your eyes on the big screen."

His fingers hovered over a red button. I rushed toward him, tried to grab his arm, but my hands passed right through him like smoke.

"Stop! Don't press it! I'm already dead! Please stop torturing what's left of me!"

But no one could hear my voice. No one could see my tears.

Dad's finger came down.

The speakers blared to life, filling the air with growling, snarling, and the scrape of claws against metal, all of it piled on top of each other in a way that made everyone's skin crawl.

It was probably some kind of custom sound effect my parents had paid good money to have made. Even out here on the sunlit lawn, it was enough to set anyone's nerves on edge.

The guests shifted uneasily in their chairs. A few of the women clapped their hands over their ears.

"That's incredibly realistic. You've got some serious equipment here, Mr. Sands." The bald man let out a dry laugh, covering up his discomfort.

On screen, the image started shaking violently, a simulation of something slamming into the walls. Dad stood over the monitor, brow creasing as he watched. The thin figure curled up in the corner didn't move, not a single flinch.

"Something's off," Dad muttered, more to himself than anyone, his fingers tapping rapidly across the control panel.

"The adrenaline should be spiking right now. She should be jumping up, looking for something to fight with, or pounding on the door. Why isn't she reacting at all?"

He cranked the volume all the way up. The slamming sounds hit like a battering ram, loud enough to rattle something deep in their chests.

Even Max tucked his tail and scrambled under the table. On screen, though, the girl didn't move. No one could even tell she was breathing.

Mom frowned at the screen. "Is she doing this on purpose? Is she trying to spite us?"

She turned to Dad, her voice sharp. "Did you push too hard last time? Maybe you made her think there's no point anymore."

Dad shook his head, looking genuinely stumped. "That can't be it. Self-preservation is instinct. Unless..."

He trailed off, something flickering across his face, then dismissed it just as quickly. "Could it be the starvation? If she's been going without for this long, her body might have shut down into a kind of hibernation state to conserve energy."

Mom nodded slowly, accepting that. "This kid is sharper than we gave her credit for. She knows that moving around right now would just burn through what little energy she has left, so she's playing dead to avoid the fear.

"Her mental resilience might actually be higher than we estimated."

Even now, they were still using their ridiculous theories to explain away my death. It never once crossed their minds that I might actually be gone.

To them, I was something unbreakable, a toy they could toss around, and it would always bounce right back.

The guests relaxed at that, letting out relieved sighs, nodding along.

"Well, she is a professor's daughter after all. Cool as a cucumber under pressure. That young lady is going to go far someday."

Dad soaked in the praise, though something still nagged at him. He had put together a whole grand finale, but the star of the show wasn't playing along. That made him look bad in front of everyone.

"Looks like we'll need a hands-on demonstration." He stood, straightened his collar, and spread his arms out to the group with an easy smile.

"Since watching from here isn't getting us anywhere, why don't I take you all down for a close-up look? See this hibernation state for yourselves."

A ripple of excitement went through the crowd. This was so much more thrilling than just sitting here staring at a screen.

"Let's go, let's go. I want to see this legendary underground bunker for myself." The bald man was already on his feet, leading the charge.

I threw myself in front of them, arms spread wide, blocking the path.

"Don't go. Please. Just leave me some dignity. Don't look at me like that! Don't look at what's down there!"

That was my body down there, the most wretched, humiliated, broken version of me imaginable. I didn't want to become cocktail conversation, and I didn't want them crowding around my corpse and picking apart every detail.

None of it mattered. They walked right through me, laughing and chatting, heading toward the back of the garden where a cluster of decorative rocks sat behind a low wall. Tucked behind them was an entrance, camouflaged so well that anyone could walk right past it without a second glance.

Dad led the way, punching a code into a panel on the rock face. A low rumble vibrated through the ground, and the rock slid open to reveal a heavy steel door, thick aindustrial-lookinging.

"This door is rated for the highest blast resistance out there," Dad said as he walked through, one hand slapping proudly against the metal.

"This could withstand a nuclear blast if it had to. Even if something truly catastrophic happened out there, this place would hold."

Sure, it was absolutely safe. Solid enough to keep out any monster from the outside world. Solid enough to lock a living person inside until she became a ghost.

They reached the second door. Mom stopped and called for the housekeeper.

"Bring out a few gas masks. One for everyone."

Mom held her hand over her nose. "The ventilation system down there is fine, but that kid's hygiene has been absolutely atrocious lately. It's going to smell terrible down there. I don't want anyone feeling unwell."

The group put on the masks with giggles and grins, like they were getting ready for a costume party. Someone even struck a pose.

"Do I look like that guy from that zombie video game?"

Mom fastened hers on. "Let's make this quick. The food upstairs is going to get cold."

The pressure valve hissed open, and immediately a wall of stench hit them through the gap in the door, rot and blood and waste all fermenting together in the enclosed space for three days straight.

Dad's brow tightened. Even he hadn't expected it to be this bad, though he recovered quickly, smoothing his expression back into place.

"This is what survival smells like, folks. You all need to get used to it."

The heavy iron door ground open. Sunlight from outside poured down the corridor, cutting into the darkness. Even through the masks, a few of the guests gagged.

"Good lord..." Gerald wrinkled his nose, his voice muffled behind the mask. "That's worse than rotten meat..."

Mom's face went cold. "How many days has that child gone without a bath? How did she let herself get like this?"

She was still muttering as they moved forward, still blaming me even as the stench of my corpse filled the air. To her, it was nothing but proof that I was filthy and lazy.

Dad picked up a heavy-duty flashlight from a shelf by the door and clicked it on. A sharp white beam swept across the walls, slick with damp and green with mildew.

"Watch your step, everyone. And stay quiet. I want to catch her first reaction."

The beam moved along the wall, and that was when it found them. Deep gouges scratched into the concrete, one after another, some of them still caked with dark, dried blood.

I had clawed those marks into the wall at the very edge of my sanity when the pain and the fear and the hunger all became too much to bear at once.

Dad stopped walking and held the flashlight steady, the circle of light fixed right on the scratches. "Look at these. Fingernails dragging against the wall like this means the anxiety levels were through the roof. This is exactly what a psychological collapse looks like right before it happens."

He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo, voice still bright and clinical. "This data is incredibly valuable. It proves our starvation and pressure strategy is working exactly as planned."

I trailed behind him, watching the back of his head, and felt something close to a laugh rise up in my chest.

The beam kept moving. It swept over a broken bowl on the ground, over the tangle of my shredded bedding scattered across the floor. And then it stopped.

At the very back corner of the room, a pool of blood, long since dried and turned black, spread across the floor. It was big enough to cover nearly half the corner. And curled up in the middle of it, small and still, was me.

One arm hung loose at my side. The wound on my wrist was torn open and ugly, the skin peeled back, but it had long since stopped bleeding. The flashlight beam hit my face full on. My skin was ashen, my eyes half open and glassy, staring at nothing.

The air went completely still.

No one breathed, and there wasn't a single sound except the low drone of the ventilation fan somewhere overhead.

Dad's mouth opened, but whatever he was about to say died in his throat. The flashlight shook in his grip, the beam trembling and throwing wild, uneven shadows across the walls.

Right next to my body sat the tin of spam, unopened, the one Dad had told me was the last one in the world.

And on the wall above me, scrawled in blood, were a few words in shaky, uneven letters.

"Mom, Dad, now there's one less mouth to feed. You'll last a few more days."