I called it morning when the thin stripe of light across the corridor slid a little farther along the wall. I didn’t know which one. They didn’t light the lamp; only once did a guard’s shadow appear and set down water through the small hatch. No food. Two finger-widths were left in the canteen from yesterday. At first I thought the shift was late, or the healer was delayed. Then the day passed. The next one too. And the third morning came with my stomach no longer growling—only a wide, cold hollow left of me.
I rationed the water. I drank in sips, held it under my tongue before swallowing, as if that might make it more. My stomach protested that it got something but not enough; it cramped, then eased. The iron on my wrist chafed the skin, drew a red ring around my ankle. The bandage on my
