The first sensation was the slight give of packed dirt. They roused him as they had every morning, and he had learned quickly to struggle to his feet after the first kick. He made his way across the room, arms blindly stretched out in front of him until he touched the rough concrete blocks. It was protocol, he had learned, for them to run a rake through the dirt floor it to see if he had been digging any holes – and by the second day, he had stopped trying.

A sharply barked command and he was dragged into the corridor, where the warm soft dirt became cold unyielding metal. He counted the steps – thirteen paces and a right to the corrugated stairs. Twenty steps making two full rotations and an exit to the right. Thirty-two more before the left to the final destination.

Then linoleum - more than three pints of his blood, teeth, fingernails, and handfuls of hair had been spread across it; he figured the janitor had gathered up more of him than he had left. He was pushed into the chair his body had become rather intimate with over the course of the last week.

The smell of lilacs and peach meant that she had come in. Somehow, she smelled like that no matter what she did to him, no matter how much of his blood was on her.

“Hey, babe.” He smiled tiredly.

“You have been quite uncooperative, Jake.” Dulcet tones, as always. Even when she was ‘working’ him. Especially then.

“Sorry, honey, you know me…” He stopped smiling, knowing what was coming next. The only question was where the blow would land.

“I have learned many things about you, indeed, but our time here is over. Stand up, turn around, and walk. You may remove the tape after fifty paces, I trust you will count them very carefully; you should be able to imagine the consequences if you do not. Do not look back.”

He sat there for a moment, incredulous, but he realized that there was no choice to be made. All things considered, he would rather walk than be dragged. He stood up slowly, ignoring the pain, and turned around, first shuffling, then walking away from her.

Ten steps, then twenty.

Forty-one, forty-two, and he felt something foreign – air brushing past his face. A breeze, carrying the scent of something other than recycled machine air, carrying the scent of nature.

Fifty steps and he stopped, expectant…but nothing happened. He reached up with a trembling hand and, in one quick motion, ripped the tape off, taking most of his eyelashes with it. The pain would have been considerable, once.

In front of him was a rickety wooden suspension bridge, extending into the mist. He took a step forward, feeling the smooth wood plank under his feet sway slightly, and then took another, and another, walking into the mist, not looking back, never looking back. He reached the lowest point of the bridge – and started speeding up, a flicker of hope lighting within him and driving him forward.

They were standing on the opposite bank, only ten paces more, when he heard the snap of the bridge being cut behind him.