The ceiling above me had cracks, spider-webbed across the stone like the fractures running through my body. I lay still on the cold ground, staring at those cracks, counting them over and over again, a way to hold on to whatever was left of my sanity. It had been hours—maybe days—since they last came for me, but the torture wasn’t just in their fists or whips. The waiting was worse. The silence, the knowing they would come again.
The pain had dulled to a constant throb, deep in my bones. My side was on fire where they’d kicked me repeatedly, and I could feel the edges of broken ribs with each shallow breath. My wrists were raw from the shackles they’d left on too long, but I barely noticed that anymore. Everything else hurt more.
I couldn’t let go, though. I couldn’t afford to. Tim and S
