My hands fumbled with the key card in hand, hurrying to open the section two cells.
Pain tore at my insides when the doors swung open and I saw them shivering in the corner of their concrete boxes. They all looked up at me with those sunken, glassy eyes and disheveled hair, licking their colorless lips. Some of them were standing there waiting, hearing the commotion from beyond the walls. Others were too fragile to move, every curve of their bones and joints visible under the taut skin. I always tripped over trays of uneaten food in these rooms. It was the resistance—the last strike against the guards. The only thing of their life they could control.
The next cell opened and the Drifter next to me strode over to the person in the corner. He was just a kid, no older than ten. Mussed bronze hair fell to his shoulders and green eyes grew to the size of a quarter when the Drifter knelt down next to him.
He smiled at the boy. “My name’s James,” he soothed. “What’s yours?”
The boy trembled, whether from excitement or cold, I couldn’t tell. All that came out of his mouth was a mousy croak. “David.”
“I’m here to help you, David,” James replied, holding out a hand..