"Thanks. And good luck." He tucked all the maps away, except for his new copy of the first floor map. He looked down at it, as if staring would make a plan appear, fully formed, on the paper. Kitchen and pantry. That'd be the place to start, assuming he didn't get any better suggestions.

Besides, if all else failed, he could at least pick up the basics for a little closet fermentation. This prison would be a hell of a lot more tolerable after a nice, cold beer or four. He leaned back on the sofa, closing his eyes. Beer, nitrous, some peace and quiet. Real peace, not this passive-aggressive Cold War détente enforced by Nurse Ratched and her thirty-seven clones.