My steak takes up nearly three-quarters of the plate, leaving just enough space for a small baked potato dripping with butter and chives tucked alongside it.
I know it’s strange to focus on the contents of your plate when a stranger rips you from your home and leaves your mate for dead. That’s if he wasn’t dead already. But the alternative is worse. So, instead, I focus on the food.
Although the rich scent of grilled meat tickles my nose and makes my stomach grumble, I don’t do as everyone around me is doing. I don’t eat even one mouthful.
All around me, the scraping of knives and forks on plates grates at me. Energetic chewing has me fighting the urge to scream. Occasionally, someone gulps from their glass of water.
Those are the only sounds that accompany every meal here.
