Tate
A bright light flashed into Tate’s eyes, held open by rough hands, temporarily blinding him. As soon as the hand released his face, his eyelids drooped closed. Tate didn’t mind, though. Holding them open was more work than it was worth at the moment. He needed to conserve what little energy he had. And, he thought wearily, if his eyes were closed, he wouldn’t be able to see the permanent smirk that Warmuth now wore whenever he came to visit.
“Tsk, tsk,” a deep, gravelly voice sighed. Probably the doctor’s, Tate thought. “Have you been giving this man anything to drink? Anything at all?” A short pause. “I didn’t think so. He’s quite dehydrated and malnourished. How do you expect him to heal if you don’t provide him with the means to do so? I want him out of this cell, Drake. If you
