Conlan brings my evening meal. I’m surprised
to see him again so soon and a million questions press against my
lips, anxious to be asked. Did he get in trouble for coming down
here earlier? What did Ellington have to say about that? Did anyone
hear what he told me? What’s the code he gave me for? Ready for
what?
But he doesn’t look at me and I hold my
tongue, afraid to say anything that might get him in trouble. He’s
going to try to get me out of here, isn’t he? He needs my help,
whatever he’s planning, he can’t do it alone.
The tray he carries is laden with salad and
a thick slab of lasagna, a pile of napkins, a cup of water that
still looks a little reddish to me. A spoon, a fork, a knife—that’s
unexpected. Conlan nods at the knife by the plate and mumbles, “I’m
supposed to
