There were bars all around, allowing the guards who stood watch around the clock

a dead-on view of him.

 

There was a toilet and a hose for a shower. His meals were passed through the

door while half a dozen guards aimed automatic weapons at him.

 

There was a comfortable bunk.

 

And nothing else.

 

He lay there day after day. When the pain hit him, forcing him to his knees in

agony, the guards stood by and watched. He assumed their orders were not to

intervene in any way. And they followed orders.

 

When he retched, which he often did, they passed towels through the bars for him

to clean up his mess.

 

And on it went day after day.

 

In his mind he counted them off, just as he had in prison.

 

Eight days. Nine. Ten. Two weeks.

 

He wondered what they were planning to do with him. Kill him?