A single breath, and the body inventory begins—the dull ache low in my belly, the sickly-sweet film at the back of my mouth, the near-imperceptible tenderness where my breasts meet the seam of my ribs.
I press a palm flat to my stomach, half in hope, half in apology.
Still nothing to feel.
I get up slowly, count the steps to the bathroom so as not to attract the attention of the guard who takes notes on my morning schedule.
He is always stationed at the corridor bend, perched on the radiator's lip with a paperback in hand, never the same book twice.
Some days, I want to ask what he's reading just to see if he'll answer, but I suspect any interest would be catalogued and filed away for later.
The pattern must remain—I do not see, I do not speak, I do not want.
In the bathroom, I brace myself on the counter andexamine my reflection with the clinical detachment of a mortician—skin sallow, eyes pocketed, the lines at my mouth deepening as if to accommodate words I refuse to say.
I brush my teeth with the old, hard toothbrush and rinse twice, spit blood, spit again.
My body is an unreliable witness, but I trust it more than anyone else in this house.
At breakfast, I perform.
The kitchen is bright, metallic, buzzing with the theater of domesticity.
Two cooks, one pastry, one savory.
They pretend not to see me, but the spread is curated—always options, always an invitation to choose, so that whatever I select becomes data.
I make a show of indecision, hovering over the buffet for a count of five before I scoop a portion of scrambled eggs, three strips of bacon, two slices of brown bread, and a half-handful of dried apricots.
Iron and salt, the diet of livestock and the newly anemic.
I eat at the small table by the window, back to the room, gaze fixed on the muted geometry of the garden beyond.
I chew slowly, methodically, as if breaking each molecule might stave off the waves of nausea that come and go in irregular tides.
When the cooks are distracted, I slide an extra slice of bread and a napkin-wrapped fist of fruit into the pocket of my cardigan, casual as petty theft.
I am not above stockpiling.
After, I retreat to my room and lock the door behind me, a pretense that would fool no one if they wanted to enter.
The first thing I do is retrieve the notebook from under the mattress.
It is spiral-bound, thin, the cover disguised with the faded logo of a bank that went under five years ago.
On the first page, I've mapped the entire ground floor—kitchens, service corridors, laundry, the path to the east library, the angle of every camera lens I've counted.
I mark the spots with color-coded dots, red for direct sight, blue forguard positions, black for shadow.
I know the rotation schedule by heart.
On the second page, I plot the exit routes—the dogleg through the conservatory, the tight squeeze behind the freezer in the secondary pantry, the choke point at the north garden gate.
I've timed the patrols.
I know, down to the second, how long I could run before they'd catch me.
The knowledge is useless, but it soothes the part of my brain that still wants to believe in options.
