And I don't lose.
I stand, stretch, and walk to the bedroom door. I knock once. Soft, but loud enough to wake him.
"Elliot. I'm back."
A pause. Then the creak of bedsprings, the shuffle of feet, the click of the lock disengaging.
The door opens.
He looks like hell. Eyes red, hair tangled, the marks on his throat darker than this morning. But he's standing. He's looking at me. He's not curled in a corner waiting to die.
"You came back," he says.
The words are simple. The weight behind them is not.
"I said I would."
He nods. Processes. Files it away the same way I file everything away, as data to be analyzed later when there's time to think.
"What happens now?" he asks.
The same question as this morning. But the tone is different. Less fear. More curiosity.
I consider my answer.
"Now we make dinner," I say. "And then I teach you something useful."
He doesn't ask what. He just steps aside to let me pass, and follows me into the kitchen, and watches as I start pulling ingredients from the fridge.
He's learning the routine.
I'm learning something too. Something I don’t understand that I needed to learn.
But I'm starting to think that's the point.
Chapter Six: Elliot
Thenoteisonthe counter when I finally leave the bedroom the next morning.
Sharp handwriting, black ink, the letters precise and even."Food in fridge. Don't answer the door. Back by 1400."
I read it three times. The words don't change.
He left me alone. Again.
I don't know what to do with that.
In the holding pens, every hour was accounted for. Wake at six. Inspection at seven. Training from eight to noon. Meals at prescribed intervals, portions measured to the calorie. Free time was a myth. Privacy was a punishment, because it meant they were watching without you knowing.
Here, there's just silence and space and a note that saysdon't answer the doorlike that's the only rule that matters.
I stand in the kitchen for a long time, staring at the fridge. My stomach cramps, a reminder that I haven't eaten since yesterday's eggs. The memory of the taste makes my mouth water, which makes me feel weak, which makes me angry at myself for wanting something.
Just open it. He said you could.
My hand hovers over the handle. I wait for the shock, the alarm, the punishment that always comes when you reach for something you're not supposed to have.
Nothing happens.
