45
One of the worst things about being confined to a prison cell was losing all sense of time. Were the minutes moving fast, or dragging slow?
For Wells, stripped of his watch and all forms of communication, every second seemed to crawl by as he contemplated Driver’s fate. He suspected the worst, and expected to be hauled out next.
But next never came. He lost all track of time in the darkness of the cell, no sun to use as a measurement for the hour. Only the narrowest glimpse of the stars through a high, barred window.
He paced from wall to wall, wishing he’d made peace with Driver earlier. Why didn’t he just tell her that he’d seen the tattoo? Plus, if he’d stuck to his part of the mission, maybe she’d have ingratiated herself to Kovac. Maybe she’d still be alive.
It begged the ques
