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They took Rodin to an office building, led him in via a rear door that opened onto a stone circular staircase.
Rodin didn’t know how may levels beneath the ground they ended up, only that his head throbbed and his legs ached by the time they reached a long corridor with a curved roof and dim lighting. They passed at least ten unmarked doors before the woman opened one and the man pushed Rodin inside.
The room was cold, the walls bare stone. There was something horribly familiar about the place—bench with a thin mattress, small shower and toilet in an alcove, privacy curtain pulled back, and nothing else.
“Make yourself at home,” the man said as he slammed the door.
Rodin waited for the echoes to die out, and then he sat.
The first time he’d been in a room like this, he’d
