When I woke up the next morning, the itch was worse. Scarily, it wasn't just my back now either; there was a patch on my left leg and one on my left arm. At least these I could look at; the one on my leg looked a bit dry, but my arm looked and felt perfectly normal. This was starting to get concerning. I stood up from my bed, to see that breakfast had already been delivered, along with another note.

Dear Lily,

The itch you are experiencing is a normal part of the process, and will fade in time. Allow us to reiterate that it is best for you to remain as relaxed as possible, as agitation may exacerbate such symptoms.

I could scarcely believe what I was reading. "What process?" I shouted. "What are you doing to me?"

Right, slow down. Panicking isn't going to help. I took a few deep breaths, then stopped to consider the implications of that note. First thing; someone is indeed actively listening to me. That had been the first time I'd spoken since I was kidnapped, and there had been a response with my next meal. Second, they're willing to respond to questions, at least to some extent. Third, and possibly most importantly, this isn't a simple kidnapping for ransom.

Am I being used as some sort of human research material? The sort of experiment that involves kidnapping children from the street instead of using willing volunteers would not be the sort of experiment I would want to be a part of. Heck, given the widespread destitution, I wouldn't doubt they would find willing volunteers for anything, as long as they paid them as much as this kidnapping must have cost to arrange.

"Please, if you don't want me to panic, keeping me informed of what to expect would help."

No new note came with my next meal, and I could only think of two possible reasons why. The better option would be that at the end of the month they would release me, and didn't want any information leaked that may help track them down. It seemed unlikely, but given the effort they went through to not let me see a single face or hear a single voice, it was plausible. Even the notes were typed rather than hand-written.

The more likely alternative was that whatever it was they were doing to me was so bad that telling me would make me panic more than leaving me in the dark. Oh, maybe a third option; the test they're doing is psychological. Yes, I'll happily grasp at any straws if it means I can pretend option two isn't the most likely.

What could I do about it? Hunger strike? What would that achieve? I had no idea how they were doing whatever they were doing to me. It could be something in the food, but it could just as easily be in the air, or there could be someone sneaking in every night and jabbing me with needles. Heck, for all I know, each time I sleep they sedate me and keep me out for a week. I had no power at all in this situation. The best I could do would be to injure or kill myself, and that would obviously harm me more than my captors. I could still do nothing but wait.

Doing my best to put my fears and frustration aside, I once again returned to my current book, sitting naked on my cell's bed. At this rate, I was going to need a fresh supply long before the month was up. Where did they even get them all from? I didn't think physical books were even being manufactured anymore.

Waking up on day five, the itchiness on my back had finally eased. Poking at it as best I could with my limited flexibility, I would swear it felt furry. If all they're testing is some sort of hair regrowth formula, I can live with a random hairy patch on my back, but somehow I doubted that was the full story.

No, it obviously wasn't the full story; the patches on my arm and leg had spread. The centre of the patch on my arm now had little red spots at regular intervals, while the one on my leg was so dry that the skin had cracked. Running my hand along my arm, I could feel little bumps under my skin at each of the red spots, but that was nothing compared to my leg. When I rubbed that, I couldn't even feel it, and when I pushed harder, I realised in alarm that sizeable chunks of my skin were rubbing off. It didn't hurt, and there was no blood, but that was far from normal.

I went to take a shower, and even more of my skin washed away. It still didn't hurt, and when I poked at the pale yellow layer underneath I even found some feeling had returned. Something was still wrong though, and not just because pale yellow was not a natural skin colour for anyone with a functional liver. The layer underneath felt hard and leathery, and very unlike skin.

What the hell were these people doing to me? I had three patches on my skin, all of which were doing completely different things. My meals turned up with no further notes, and I was still trapped here. I wondered what my family were doing with me missing. Did they think I was dead? Were they distressed, looking for me? What about Alicia and Samantha, and their own families?

"What are my family doing? Are they looking for me? Are Alicia and Samantha okay?" I asked, just in case, but of course no answer came.

I was woken up in the middle of the night by an intense pain in my arm, as if someone had filled it with needles. It thankfully didn't last long, and when I looked, the reason it felt like I'd been stabbed by countless needles was readily apparent. It was because I had been. They'd just come from the inside instead of outside. Neat rows of blue-grey spikes had pierced through my skin, making my patch of arm look like some sort of short-haired pastel hedgehog.

My sleep disturbed, I tossed and turned, trying to drop back off. I only wished there was something I could do about the whole situation. The notes stressed the importance of relaxing. Was that really for my own good, or would getting worked up spoil their experiment? It would be worth a try.

I woke up once more the next morning, finding with alarm that the quilled area of my arm had grown overnight, as had my leathery patch of leg. At least neither itched now, although subtle tingling at several other points around my body suggested I'd have new outbreaks soon. Deciding that if I didn't do something soon, there wouldn't be much of my skin left to save, I tried starting my day in a decidedly unrelaxing manner.

I went for a strenuous workout, starting with push-ups. It quickly became obvious that something else was wrong; normally I struggled to do thirty, but today I made fifty without breaking a sweat. By the time I reached a hundred I was breathing heavily, but still felt I could do more. I switched to sit-ups, squats and the other simple moves that I could do without equipment, and in every case I found I could vastly exceed what I thought I was capable of.

That was not as alarming as having quills burst out of my arm, but was still obviously abnormal. What had they been doping me with to give me that sort of increase in endurance in under a week, when I hadn't even been doing exercise in all that time? Alas, the note about relaxing turned out to be at least partially true; by the time I'd finished, the tingling was noticeably worse. I did my best to ignore it as I ate my breakfast, unwilling to show my captors any weakness. I doubted it would help in the long run, and might even make things worse if they felt they could push me harder, but even in this state, I refused to sacrifice my pride.

By the end of the day, I was starting to think that my little protest workout had been a mistake. There hadn't been any notes complaining about it, but I now had three patches between my two arms, four more on my legs and two on my chest, all burning away with an itch that was far worse than the original one on my back. In the evening, another one had started up on my forehead, and I wasn't at all looking forward to finding what would happen to that one tomorrow.