You lower yourself into the dim room. You drop the final few feet to the floor and your ankle twists beneath you. You’re in a tiny room, just a few feet square. You can touch all the walls from where you stand. There’s a small opening in one of the walls—a plank of wood, right by your knee, fitted into the dirt walls. You push your nails into the seam of the little door and pry it open. It’s narrow, but you manage to squeeze through on your hands and knees. As you crawl, your shoulders scrape against the walls of the hallway. It stings at first, as the dirt gets under your skin and nails, but that’s nothing compared to the soreness and dehydration you’re feeling. You’ve been crawling for hours, maybe a whole day, and the hunger and thirst clawing at your stomach is almost enough to stop you in your path.
Without warning, the hallway widens. You’re in a small, square room, and there’s a ladder leading up to the ceiling. You grasp a rung and pull yourself up, pushing open a small trapdoor. You crawl out and the door slams behind you.
It’s the same room. There’s the same ivory door, the same gray door, and the same trapdoor. You’ve been crawling for an eternity and you’ve gone nowhere.
What do you do?