35
- 35 -
Rodin woke in a small cell, and his first thought was that the last decade had been a dream.
The light was low, and the sparse furnishings nondescript, but still Rodin recognised his surroundings. He knew the rough wooden bench, the bucket, the lack of windows, and the bright light from a ceiling tile.
But this was today, not all those years ago. There were differences. For one thing, he was n***d.
He sat up on the bench, checking his body. Bruises and abrasions, old scars, hands discoloured from dust. The bandage on his shoulder was peeling away, revealing dried blood around a scabby wound.
He stood, stretching his creaking limbs, noting where the muscles complained the most. And he thought back to that first time.
Then, as Brodie, he had felt almost nothing but fear. He
