WATER WAS CREEPING into Ethan’s prison cell. He was thirsty, but he was too weak and ill to turn over to drink it. He was lying on his back, the ever-present, ceiling-wide light shining in his eyes whenever he opened them, which wasn’t often. Mostly, he drifted in and out of consciousness, much preferring the times when he wasn’t awake, when dreams invaded his mind and he experienced a brief respite from the all-encompassing throb of pain from his leg.
But the water had woken him. It was cold and it was soaking into his shirt and pants and the hair on the back of his head. He vaguely wondered if the threads had finally realized he was dying and they were going to fill the chamber to drown him and put him out of his misery.
Despite everything, he didn’t want to die. More than ever, he wan
