I wasn’t to be cowed so easily, however. And that was a part, no doubt, of the withdrawal symptoms’ effect on my mental state. When Anatole brought me my next meal I was in a fully agitated state. I was in the washroom when he entered, and I emerged into the main room with a glowering sense of resentment. I watched as he replaced the previous meal with the new one, and saw him tip two white pills into the paper cup. That made my blood boil, and when I spoke, it was in a shout.
“What’s going on, anyway?”
He paused, holding the plate of the old meal, and looked at me with the same guarded manner that seemed to be his default mode. His eyes searched me, and he tilted his head slightly.
“You are recovering,” he said.
“I’m being f*****g kept,” I snarled. “You lock that door. I can’t see any
