When Dany next wakes, a cold white sun has dawned in her world. The bulb shines so bright that her eyes water and, at first, she doesn’t even see the typewriter.
The thing is ancient. A sky-blue Underwood, legs bolted to the metal table. The sort of thing that belongs in a museum. Next to it, a tidy stack of forms, waiting to be filled out. Dany glances at the mirror-wall, but the girl who looks back at her is just as bewildered.
So, they don’t trust her with a computer.
Suspect she’ll open a vein if given a pen.
She knows it isn’t pain her captors object to, but escape. By any means. Over the last week, they’ve left dozens of puncture marks, long blood-bruised lines on the back of each hand. And now, they’ve done something to the small of her back, to a vertebra. They’ve put a to
