I swallowed and wet my lips before I looked back down to the cuff around my wrist. The metal had warmed against my skin but didn’t feel quite right. It should have been those plastic zip-ties or maybe rope, not handcuffs. There was still the feel of sand in the back of my throat, and I coughed to try to get rid of it. It didn’t help. It never did.
“Can we get him out of the restraints?”
“No, sir. That wouldn’t be a good idea at all.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
There was an unfriendly guffaw from the guard as he mumbled under his breath.
“You got no idea who you’re dealing with, do ya?”
“What does that mean?”
My eyes traveled from Mark to the guard at the end of the bed. He was the unit supervisor, and though I didn’t remember his name, I did remember him making sure the cuffs were nice and tight as he restrained me. We locked gazes for a moment, and I stared at him with an intense, silent warning until he looked away.
Even if I didn’t give a shit about what happened to me now, I wasn’t going to let Rinaldo’s name into the conversation. There was some pride in me and also some loyalty, even if it was a fucked up version of allegiance.
“Sorry, sir,” the supervisor said to Mark, “but I can’t release him without orders from the warden.”
A deep sigh came from Mark as he pulled up a rolling chair close to the edge of the bed.
“Evan?”
I closed my eyes and tried to cross my arms in front of my chest, but of course, the handcuffs stopped me. A shudder passed through my body, and my breathing increased along with the pounding of my heart. I could taste and feel sand in my throat.
It’s not real.
Real or not, it sent me back into the desert.
“Lieutenant Evan Nathanial Arden, service number zero-four-seven-two-”
My teeth clench together to keep myself from screaming. I can’t see what the bearded man is using to whip the back of my neck down to my ass, but it stings like a motherfucker. I’m surprisingly glad I went through all the torture resistance training back in the spring.
“Did I ask you for your numbers?” The man in front of me—the leader of the group—kicks sand into my face, and I don’t manage to close my eyes in time.
I try to shake my head to get rid of some of the grains, but it doesn’t work. My eyes burn, and I can’t stop the desperate grunt that escapes my throat.
“You don’t like the sand here?” the leader asks. “You should get used to it!”
I still can’t open my eyes enough to see, but I feel rough hands on the back of my neck, and my face is shoved into the grains of sand in front of my knees. He twists and turns my head as I try to hold my breath.
With my hands balled into fists, I opened my eyes and looked to Mark in desperation. I couldn’t seem to actually say anything as my lungs screamed for oxygen. I was practically panting, but it wasn’t enough air. All I could feel going into my chest were grains of sand.
He put his hand on my forearm, but I jumped back away. The handcuffs bit into the skin of my wrist, and I gasped out loud. My body tensed—frozen in one spot as additional memories flooded through my brain.
“I’m going to get those off of you,” Mark said. “Just hang in there a little while longer, okay?”
I tried to nod but had no idea if I was successful or not.
Mark went on to argue with the unit leader about the handcuffs and to ask why I hadn’t been moved to a cell yet. I only half paid attention to the conversation. I certainly wanted to be out of the cuffs, but I wasn’t so sure moving from one part of the prison to another was going to make any kind of significant difference. It wasn’t like I was going to be able to sleep any better on a different cot.
“He’s still supposed to be on suicide watch.”
“I don’t think he’s a threat to himself.”
“You didn’t think he’d blow up a park either.”
“I can’t treat him if he’s nonresponsive, and he’s going to be that way as long as you have him restrained. Didn’t you read my notes?”