"What do you mean?"
"They cycle us. Two, three weeks, then we go through the door and we don't come back to this room. We go somewhere else, or we go to a buyer. My time is almost up." Her jaw sets. "So I'm telling you what I know while I still can."
"Elena—"
"Quiet. The rooms upstairs, past the metal door and up the staircase. There are windows. Small, high, but they're there on the east-facing wall. The glass is old, I'm almost certain it's single pane."
"How do you know which way is east?"
"The light. Morning sun comes through on the left side. That's east." She presses closer to the fence. "I have a sharp rock under my mattress. From the one time they took me to the yard. When they come for me, I'm going to use it."
"To do what?"
Her eyes hold mine. Steady, fierce, a little bit mad. "Whatever I have to."
Respira. Ricorda. Resisti.
"One more thing." Her voice drops lower. "A woman from my section, before they moved her. She said an American came through here. A man. Not a prisoner. He walked with the guards. Gave orders. She said he spoke Italian but his accent was wrong."
An American? "What man?"
"She didn't know. She said he came twice, maybe three times. Checked things. Spoke to the guards like he was one of them but higher." Elena's eyes cut briefly toward Matt's cell and come back to mine. "Be careful who you trust in here. You're smart. Stay smart."
She slips away before I can respond, moving along the fence line like she hasn't just unloaded all of this on me. I watch her go, thinking about what she said. About an American who might be in charge. And what it means that someone from home could be part of this horrifying operation.
An hour later, the guards drag the one-shoed girl past our section. She's crying, not loud, just leaking tears in a steady silent stream, and the wiry night guard with the neck tattoo has his hand fisted in her hair, pulling her toward the metal staircase. She trips on the step, and he yanks her up by the hair, making her yelp. I see the exact moment Matt's face changes.
It's fast. A flicker across his features, there and gone, his jaw setting, his body rising from the crouch he's been sitting in all afternoon. He's on his feet and moving before I can say a word.
"Matt. Don't."
He isn't listening.
The wiry guard has the girl’s arm twisted behind her back now, high enough that her shoulder’s about to give. She’s not screaming anymore, just small, choked sounds, like the air’s being squeezed out of her. Matt slams both palms against the chain-link hard enough to make the whole partition shudder and ring.
“Hey! Get your fucking hands off her!”
The guard stops. Turns. His face does that blank thing they all do, eyes sliding over Matt like he’s running quick math—loud American versus quiet girl, noise versus silence, effort versus payoff. Matt doesn’t give him time to finish the equation.
He keeps yelling, voice raw at the edges, arms spread wide like he can actually reach through the fence and do something about it.
The guard lets go of the girl’s arm. She crumples against the staircase railing, knees buckling. Another guard steps in from the side, grabs her by the hair, yanks her upright, and starts dragging her toward the door anyway. Her feet scrape the stairs in useless little drags. She’s too dazed to kick now.
Matt keeps shouting. “You piece of shit! Let her go!”
The wiry guard doesn’t even glance at her anymore. He’s locked on Matt. Smiles, the kind of smile that says this just got interesting. He walks straight over to Matt’s cell, pulls the key ring from his belt, unlocks the padlock with slow, deliberate turns, like he’s savoring every click.
The door swings open.
Matt doesn’t back up. Doesn’t run to the far corner. He stands there, chest heaving, blood already trickling from where he bit his lip yelling.
The guard steps inside. No words. Just swings.
Not a punch. A headbutt, forehead smashing the bridge of Matt’s nose. The crack is wet and immediate. Blood sprays across the concrete. Matt staggers, hands flying to his face. The guard follows with a hook to the jaw that snaps his head sideways into the fence. Two more guards appear from the corridor—one drives a boot into Matt’s stomach, folding him. The other fists his hair and slams his face down onto the floor.
I grip the fence so hard the links cut into my palms and draw blood. My mouth is open but nothing comes out. Not a scream, not a word. My voice is gone, stolen somewhere between the first crack and the second.
They beat him for two full minutes. I count because it’s the only thing keeping me from trying to tear through the fence with my bare hands, and I know that’s impossible, I know, but mybody doesn’t care. One hundred and twenty seconds of boots thudding ribs, fists cracking skull, Matt curling tighter on the concrete, arms wrapped around his head, not fighting back, just taking it. His fingers splay against the floor, grip, splay again—the only part of him still moving.
