The thin mattress smells like sweat, mildew, and blood that's gone stiff. And Matt… whose arm is dead weight across my ribs. Even in whatever passes for sleep in this place, his fingers stay twisted into my shirt like he's afraid the floor will take me if he lets go. Like I'll just dissolve into the concrete and that'll be that, one less thing for him to keep alive in hell.
I don't sleep. Not really.
You'd think all this time on concrete would just knock a person out cold. Like at some point the body throws up its hands and saysfine, you win, I'm done,and shuts everything off. You'd be so wrong.
My body's forgotten how to turn off by now. Now it just runs, processing every creak, every boot-fall, every distant clang against the three-hour rotation I've memorized the way I memorized the bus schedule back home.
Welcome to hell. The orientation packet is nonexistent, and the HR department is worse.
Matt's breathing is shallow but steady against the back of my neck, his nose whistling slightly on the exhale when the door bangs open.
Matt's arm goes rigid, pulling me into him as every muscle locks in a full-body flinch he can't hide. Squeezing his hand, I peel his fingers away gently, one at a time, loosening his grip.
"Up," the guard barks in a bored tone.
Matt sits, his back blocking my view of the door, which I'm sure is intentional. He always does it. Puts himself between me and whatever comes. Guards grab him under both arms and haul him to standing. His knees buckle for a second before he catches himself.
Looking back at me over his shoulder, as they drag him out he mouths, "survive."
The door clangs shut behind them and I cannot stop thinking about the way he looked at me, like it was the last time he was going to see me.
Sitting up, I pull my knees to my chest, the mattress shifting beneath me. I'm using that word generously for a two-inch slab of foam that wouldn't pass quality control at a dog shelter.
Somewhere in her cell, Elena is silent.
Part of me wants to call out to her. Part of me knows better. It's the wrong time to draw attention to her. Maybe she's still planning her escape, or maybe she already made it out.
I press my forehead to my knees.
Please let her plan work.
A set of footsteps startles me, my head snapping up at the sound. A single pair of boots.
Not the usual two-man rotation. Just one set, unhurried, with that heavy-heeled rhythm I've memorized the way you memorize the sound of a car backfiring in Southie. Not because you want to, but because your survival depends on it.
My back hits the wall before I'm consciously moving.
It'shim.
My hands start to shake as he approaches, making me feel for every woman who's ever been watched too long in a bar, on asubway, across a parking lot at night. Except my version has keys to my cell and the backing of an organization that sells women by the pound, and the game he's been playing for the past few days just hit its expiration date.
No second guard. No clipboard. No clinical excuse for why I'm being dragged somewhere. Just him. His key. And the look in his eyes that says someone finally gave him permission.
He steps inside. Closes the door.
Locks it.
The key.
Every nerve I have left fires at once.
"Your reservation's been canceled," he says slowly, savoring every word as if he's rehearsed them. "Boss says you're fair game now."
His hands move to his belt buckle.
I'm already on my feet.
Here's the thing about three weeks of barely eating, of stale bread, and drinking only water Elena warned me about, of layered bruises and broken sleep and every calorie your body had to burn just to keep the lights on inside—there's nothing left in the tank. But there's also nothing left to lose.
