I assume I’ve been here three years. But for all I know it could be longer.
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Maybe this is just an elaborate shared delusion.”
“That’s a cheerful thought.”
We fall into comfortable silence, her hand warm in mine.
The distant sound of the corridor door opening reaches us—the soft scrape of metal on stone that signals the beginning of morning rounds.
“Someone’s coming,” I murmur.
Lithia’s fingers tighten around mine for a moment before reluctantly letting go. “Guards?”
“Yes, one with the bucket woman,” I say, withdrawing my arm from the hole and adjusting my position. “She comes twice a day.”
“The one who never speaks?”
“That’s her.”
The footsteps draw closer—light, hesitant steps that lack the confident stride of the guards. They pause outside my cell, followed by the familiar jingle of keys.
The lock turns, and the door swings open. She enters, small and hunched, moving with cautious efficiency. Today she carries not just the replacement bucket but also a small tray with what passes for breakfast in this hellhole—a bowl of thin gruel and a cup of water.
I remain still, pressed against the wall opposite the door, my head down in the non-threatening posture I’ve perfected over the years. Through lowered lashes, I watch her.
She sets the tray down near my sleeping pallet, then moves to exchange the waste bucket. As she lifts the old one, her eyes widen slightly at the stone fragments and bloodydebris inside. Her gaze flicks to me, then to the wall I share with Lithia.
For one heart-stopping moment, I think she’ll raise the alarm.
Instead, she makes a small adjustment to her movements, tilting the bucket slightly to shield its contents from the view of anyone who might be watching through the door’s observation slot. With practiced motions, she transfers the bucket’s contents to a larger container on her cart, making sure the stones are buried beneath other waste.
As she places the clean bucket in the corner, she pauses. Without looking directly at me, she reaches into her pocket and places something small beside the food tray. Then she’s gone, the door closing and locking behind her.
I wait until I hear her enter Lithia’s cell before moving. The object she left is a scrap of cloth, wrapped around something solid. I unfold it carefully to reveal a small piece of metal—part of a broken buckle or clasp, its edge sharpened to a crude point.
A tool. A weapon, even.
She’s left me small gifts before. An extra piece of bread. A cloth to clean wounds. Never anything this obvious though.
The voices in my head begin to speak.
Could be a trap.
Could be a chance.
Could be escape.
Could be a test.
Could be…
Could be…
I carefully hide the metal shard in a crack in the wall near my sleeping area.
She might be our way out of here.
I can hear the scrape of Lithia’s spoon as she eats her gruel.
