17
I glance at my watch. 8:34 p.m.
I’m bursting for a pee. Didn’t think it would be something to worry about. But it is, and it’s very annoying. I should have gone before I locked the door. We all should have. I scan the bedroom, looking for something to pee in. Can’t see anything obvious, like a large bowl or a bucket. I’m not squatting over a b****y bucket. Not just yet, anyway. I can hold it until morning. It’s just mind over matter—mental discipline. My bladder is big enough. It’s not going to explode.
I’ll just have to avoid thoughts of water, dripping taps, and rainy days. I’ll just have to focus on what happens next—what the plan of attack is. I mean, how long is everyone expected to wait until help shows up? A day? Two days? A b****y week? That’s not right. And if all the Cleane
