I hug my pillow against my stomach and stare at the bars covering the window. There's no point in staring beyond the window since it's been painted black.
I've been in this prison for three days. It took Malachi four days to drive us into New York, which means it's been seven days since my abduction. I think.
It's not easy to tell the passage of time when the only frame of reference is guard rotation, and even that isn't perfect. The guards don't always check on me. They don't need to. Where am I going to go? I'm in an abandoned building, on a prison island.
I feel the burn behind my eyes and roll onto my back. I count the marks in the ceiling, little black dots made with pencil or charcoal, until the tears have passed. I'm not sure where the marks came from, or why they're there. I imagine they mark the passage of time and I group them in my head, using the same method.