“Taureans,” Domik corrected, his voice croaky.
“—whatever they’re called—the resistance thinks they are just here to enslave us.”
Domik choked on the mouthful he was chewing. His expression must have given away his feelings, as she laughed.
CJ is rubbing off on me if I can be read that easily.
“Exactly,” the old lady said, and for a moment Domik thought she meant about CJ.
“I don’t know what those boys think makes them such good slave material. Have you seen them? They’re not exactly prime specimens.” She shook her head. “You, on the other hand. You’re as big as those, what did you say they were called? Taureans?”
Domik nodded.
Bigger than most, actually.
He finished the sandwich, and the woman bent down to pick up the plate and his glass. She smiled, straightening, before turning to leave. She stopped in the doorway, her voice a little louder. “I’m Georgina Jackson. This is my farm, or it was before those fools rolled in and insisted they were claiming it for the resistance. If my boys weren’t in Space Force, they’d be here right now, and those fools wouldn’t have dared mess with them.” She scowled. “I’ll be back later with more food.”
Domik nodded and watched as she closed the door behind herself, opening the window and giving him a wink before walking away.
Maybe there’s a way out of here after all.
Domik was no fool. He knew he could get out of this place, but he needed to know what he was facing before he tried. Who knew how long it would take to get out of here? Time was ticking. Every minute he was away from CJ, weighing on his mind.
He dozed off, head slumped forward, waking with a jerk as the door opened once more.
The person who stepped through wasn’t the kindly Georgina. This time it was a skinny human—barely a man—who stepped hesitantly into the doorway. He was dressed as the others were, in a work shirt, jeans and boots, but a radio was strapped to his belt.
A radio.
That meant that there was a way to communicate. Perhaps there was a way to get in touch with the Zataras.
Domik shifted on the floor, rolling his shoulders as much as he could with his wrists bound.
The boy looked nervously over his shoulder, eyes pleading with whomever was still in the hallway. “Do I have to?”
Does he have to do what?
“Do it.” A low growl came from outside the room.
The boy stepped into the room, eyes downcast and not meeting Domik’s own. He was muttering under his breath, low words that Domik didn’t recognize at first. A prayer. This boy was praying.
Why is he praying?
Domik lifted his hands in front of his face, as if afraid of the boy cowering on the floor. He was much bigger than this thin young man, but he pushed out a whimper.
I just have to get into the hallway. One step after the other.
The boy took a step closer, sliding his foot along the dusty floor.
It was almost night again, the fading light in the room casting shadows over the boy’s face, making him appear even more gaunt.
“Oh, come on!” The voice in the hallway came again. “Do I have to do everything myself?” The speaker moved into the doorway, showing himself to be the man from the motel.
Tom. His name is Tom.
Tom stepped into the doorway, blocking the light from the hallway. His face was in shadow, his fingers flexing as he tilted his neck from side to side, cracking, before stepping into the room and shoving aside the boy who slumped onto the wall with a relieved sigh. “Get out of here,” the man growled, and the boy fled.
Domik glanced from the doorway where the boy had gone back to his captor.
