Chad is lying on top his bed naked and pouting. He glances at the open doors and window. Once opened, he discovered he couldn't close them. His computer and phone don't work. Everything is silent: no birds chirp, no trucks rumble by, sounds at all, not even the sound of his own heart beating or his lungsbreathing. He cannot hear the outside world, and his diaphragm isn't moving. He checks his pulse. Chad cannot feel it. Is he dead? He tries to write, but his fingers pass through the pens and pencils on his desk.
He panics. He paves. He shouts. He throws a tantrum - well, tries to throw a tantrum. He cannot pick up objects to throw, and his stomps and fist pounding are soundless. He grabs himself. At least he can feel himself. He can hold himself. It's like he slipped between realities. He exists and nothing else is real for him.
Then he hears the voices. They first sound was like thunder breaking the preternatural silence, the clank of the locker door opening.
A raspy voice boomed from the open closet door, "Nah, locker's still empty," then a giant shadow looms over the glass portal through the bathroom door, a tinny voice echoes, "Not in the washer either," but he realizes they are distant whispers. Light shines from above in the hallway. The stack of clothing sways slightly but remains fixed while the drawer apparently opens. A voice says, "No new undies. Guess Chad hasn't chosen yet."
"Ew! Goddammit, my gym clothes smell like piss!" came the voice from the window.
"Not choosing, is still choosing. Not in the workout room yet, but the ceiling looks kinda fuzzy," this voice came from under Chad's bed.