I wake to the taste of copper and dirt. My tongue feels too large for my mouth, and when I try to swallow, my throat constricts with a rawness that makes me wince. The light filtering through the narrow window cuts across my vision like a blade, and I turn away from it, pressing my face against a surface that smells of mildew and sweat and something wilder—the lingering scent of what I was, of what I became.
The stained mattress beneath me sags with the effort of holding my weight. My muscles spasm in protest as I try to gather myself, try to remember, try to be. Fragments of the night before skitter across my consciousness like frightened prey—running, howling, the glorious terror of freedom. The cool press of iron bars outlined against the pale morning sky filters through the window, a
