But it’s outside. It’s air and space and the absence of those four walls that have been suffocating me.
Cruz, the young guard who used to escort my evening walks, stands a respectful distance away.
He nods at me but doesn’t speak.
He just maintains his professional surveillance while I try to remember how to breathe normally.
I wander the stone paths aimlessly at first, just moving, just existing in space that isn’t my prison while clutching a bag of medical supplies that Danny procured for me and a carrier for any birds I spot.
The garden smells like dying leaves and damp earth, autumn settling over Chicago.
In another life, this would be my favorite time of year.
Now it just marks time passing—weeks of captivity stacking up with no end in sight.
That’s when I see it.
A sparrow, small and brown, huddled beneath one of the carefully trimmed hedges.
One wing is extended at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.
It’s trying to hide, to make itself small and invisible, but I can see the rapid rise and fall of its tiny chest, the fear and pain written in every trembling feather.
Creatures as trapped as I am.
I exhale. “Oh.”
I kneel beside it slowly, my hands moving with the muscle memory of hundreds of similar situations.
The bird tries to flutter away but can’t, the broken wing making flight impossible.
It’s trapped here, dependent on mercy it has no reason to expect.
Just like me.
The psychological pressure of captivity is breaking me in ways I didn’t anticipate.
It’s not the physical restrictions or even the fear for my future that’s cracking my composure.
No, it’s the emotional whiplash.
The way Luca treats me.
The memory of his hands on me, rough and desperate, that I can’t stop replaying despite my self-disgust.
I’m falling apart, and there’s no one here to catch me.
“Hi there,” I murmur to the sparrow, stroking its head with one gentle finger as tears track down my cheeks. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I feel bad for lying to the bird.
Nothing here is safe.
Not the bird, not me, not whatever fragile grasp on sanity I’m desperately trying to maintain.
“Talking to yourself, or to the bird?”
I jolt violently at the sound of Luca’s voice, nearly dropping the sparrow who tweets in fear.
