Before I can stop myself, I jump off the
bunk, press my face against the bars, try to see down the empty
corridor. “Hey!” I yell, and my voice rings off the steel walls.
“Hey! I need to talk to somebody!”
No answer. Just my own voice, echoing away.
Can they even hear me? I doubt it. If Dylan’s down another corridor
and he cried himself hoarse and I didn’t hear a breath of it,
chances are I’m just wasting my time. I try to rattle the bars but
they don’t budge, they’re set too deep into the floor and ceiling.
Then I try to run the knife across them, like I’ve seen criminals
do in the old holovids from Earth, but the thin blade just plinks
over the steel, doesn’t make any real sound at all. Anger makes me
cry out again, “Hey!” Top of my lungs, long and drawn out until I
run out of breath and my voice warbles off and still nothing. No
one hears me. No one cares.
For a few frantic moments I wave my arms at
the corner where the camera is—maybe someone in the guardroom will