Patrick's ribs ached and his shoulder burned. He strained his ears, eager for sound, but there was nothing. The darkness hurt his eyes and he closed them, only to have them pop open again, as if afraid he'd miss something.
The chains on his arms were long enough to give slack, so he massaged his injuries and even used the hateful bucket. He didn't know how much longer he had. Minutes? Hours? Days? They'd left Chelsea in a box for two weeks because he'd thrown up on the floor. How long would it take to equal a carpet, a set of shoes, and a bunch of expensive clothing?
Oh God. I'm going to die down here.
Eventually he heard footsteps. First one set, then another, and another, and soon there were a lot of them. They were followed by the sound of wood scraping on wood, a handful of scattere
