There it is.
Information.
The first guard steps closer.
Not aggressive exactly.
Measured.
“You help when needed,” he says. “That is all.”
Medical care.
Of course.
I should’ve guessed that already.
I glance down briefly at the tray.
Bread.
Rice.
Bottled water.
No utensils.
Smart.
“Someone’s injured,” I say quietly.
Neither man answers.
But I already know I’m right.
The guard nods once toward the food.
“You need strength.”
Then both men turn and leave.
The heavy door slams shut behind them.
Lock clicks again.
Silence.
I stare at the untouched tray for several seconds before finally crossing the room.
Because refusing food only hurts me.
And right now I need a clear head more than pride.
I sit carefully on the edge of the mattress and open the water first.
My hands stay steady.
That’s good.
