Rebecca stops suddenly, raising a hand. I halt behind her, listening. Footsteps ahead, coming our way.
She looks around, then points to a door on our right labeled "Maintenance." Without a word, we slip inside, closing the door quietly behind us.
The closet is tiny, barely big enough for cleaning supplies and the two of us. Our bodies press together in the darkness, her back against my chest. I can feel her heart racing, smell the faint scent of something fruity in her hair.
"Sorry," she whispers, trying to create space where there is none.
"Don't be." I keep my voice low, my mouth close to her ear. "You're doing great."
The footsteps grow louder, passing directly outside our hiding place. Multiple people, moving quickly. Guards, maybe, trying to regain control. Or more inmates, looking for escape routes. Either way, we're better off unseen.
Rebecca's breathing is shallow, controlled. She's trying hard not to make noise. I rest my free hand on her shoulder, a small gesture of reassurance. She doesn't pull away.
As the footsteps fade, pain slices through me again, more intense this time. I clench my jaw to keep from making a sound, but a small grunt escapes anyway.
Rebecca turns in the tight space, her face now inches from mine. Even in the darkness, I can make out her features—wide eyes, full lips pressed with concern.
"Let me check your wound," she whispers.
"Not here. Keep moving while we can."
She hesitates, then nods. We wait another minute to be sure the corridor is clear, then slip back out.
The administrative wing is just ahead. Through a small window in a door, I can see desks, computers, normalcy that seems surreal compared to the chaos in the cell blocks. But it's empty. Everyone evacuated when the riot started.
Rebecca tries the door. Locked.
"Shit," she mutters.
I gently move her aside. "Allow me."
I pull out the shank I took from Walsh's man, examining the lock. Standard issue, nothing fancy. I've picked worse with less.
"Turn around," I tell her.
"Why?"
"Plausible deniability. If anyone asks, you didn't see me do this."
She hesitates, then turns her back. Smart woman.
I work the makeshift blade into the lock, feeling for the pins. My hands are slippery with blood, making it harder, but after a moment, I feel the satisfying click. The door swings open.
"How did you...?" She trails off, shaking her head. "Never mind. I don't want to know."
We enter the administrative area, moving quickly between desks. Through windows on the far side, I can see the prisonyard. Guards are regrouping, riot gear on. They'll retake the prison block by block. Standard procedure.
"Staff exit is this way," Rebecca says, leading me toward another corridor.
My vision swims suddenly, the room tilting. I grab the edge of a desk to steady myself.
"Thompson?" Rebecca is at my side instantly, her arm sliding around my waist to support me.
"Just dizzy," I manage. "Blood loss."
"We need to stop and treat you properly."
"No time."
