"Cozy," Matt says, sitting cross-legged on his mattress. "Reminds me of my first apartment. Except that had fewer rats. Marginally."
"You had rats?"
"One. Named him Horatio. After the Shakespeare character, not the CSI guy. He ate my cereal and left droppings in my shoes, so really he was more of a roommate than a pet."
"Did Horatio pay rent?"
"Horatio contributed nothing and took everything. Typical roommate."
I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Water-stained concrete, spider-webbed with cracks. A building telling you exactly how it's failing, if you know how to read it.
I try to sleep at night, but the screaming and sobbing makes sure that's impossible. Three women and one man are dragged past our cell to the door at the top of the metal staircase. They come back an hour later, looking beaten and dejected, dried tears and blood marking their faces, their dirty clothes ripped in places. I cross out the door from my list of potential exits. Whatever happens there, I want to be as far away as possible.
The next morning the guards bring a five-gallon jug with a spigot, place it on top of the table and let us out one by one to refill our cups. The whole thing is quiet. No one says a word, noone fights, no one tries to run. Just subdued prisoners, taking their turn one by one.
I'm filling my cup, dented metal can, with sharp edges, that tastes of rust no matter how many times I rinse it, when the woman behind me screams and runs at the door with the guard in front of it. I watch with horror, as the guard lazily lifts his gun and shoots twice. The woman collapses, screaming in agony, holding her bleeding leg, as another guard walks over to her and drags her by her hair out of my line of site.
The one by the water jug looks at me and smirks. "Legs aren’t required. Just the rest of her."
It takes everything in me to peel my eyes away from the blood smear on the floor and make my way back to my cell, letting Matt take his turn with the water.
I slide onto my mattress. My back to the chain-link wall.
"You're the Americans." A whisper from behind my back startles me.
I turn and am met face to face with a woman, gazing at me through the fencing. She's thin in a way that used to be lean and is now just looks depleted. Dark hair pulled back from a face all angles and hollows. Mid-thirties, maybe. Italian. Eyes the kind of brown that looks black in this lighting, fixed on me with an intensity that has nothing to do with the water jug.
"Word travels fast." I reply quietly.
"There are no secrets here. Only things we don't say out loud yet."
She doesn't smile, just watches me drink with lifeless eyes. I watch her back.
"I'm Elena," she says.
"Vi."
"They drug the water."
I spit out my sip, coughing, just as she takes a drink.
"You might as well drink it. It dulls the senses, and it beats dying of thirst. Trust me."
My throat tightens as I sweep my eyes across the floor, noting the guard pushing Matt into the cell next to mine instead of the one we shared. I keep my face straight, not showing any emotions, months of practice in Elio's estate, watching his world without letting mine show. A skill I never wanted and now can't afford to lose. Matt instantly goes to the mattress closest to the wall we share, his wide eyes on me, as his trembling hand lifts the cup to his mouth. I shake my head almost imperceptibly. He lowers the cup.
"You're counting the guards." Elena whispers, bringing my attention back to her.
"Everyone counts things."
"Not everyone counts the things that matter." She sets her cup beside her. "The ones who count, they either survive or they get noticed. Be careful which one finds you first."
She lies down on her mattress and closes her eyes.
Matt and I exchange glances. I point at the cup and mouth 'drugged'. He swallows visibly and nods a thanks in return.
Two days later they come for him. It's morning when two armed men I've been tracking walk over to his cell. I moved my mattress to be beside his.
"Stay down," he hisses, standing up before they reach us. Already moving toward the fence opening, like he heard them coming before their boots hit the floor.
