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He methodically scans his cell, looking for weakness in the iron bars and the old metal lock. His bloodied fingers trace every nook and crevice of both lock and iron bars. He moves along the walls, searching for gaps in the concrete. Then he moves to the threadbare edges of the cot.
He lifts up rotting rags, and when they disintegrate in his hands, he tosses them to the floor. Then he turns to the cot itself.
He bangs on it. Kicks it. Tugs at the wire frame. Then he suddenly stops. And that’s when a spark of hope flickers in his eyes. “I found something.”
“What?”
“A hope and a prayer.” His voice is tinged with excitement.
"What did you find?” Curiosity mingles with a growing sense of anticipation. I press my face against the bars of my cell, as if that helps me see into his cell better. My heart pounds in my chest, eager to understand the source of his newfound optimism.
“See the cot?” He points to the rusted-out frame.
“What about it?” I try to make sense of what he's pointing at. Despite not seeing whatever he sees, my heart quickens with anticipation.
“Right there, see that coil?” He kneels beside the edge of the frame.
“No, but I trust you.”
He studies the rusty coil, its weathered appearance giving me doubts. I have no idea how a rusted-out coil of metal will help, but I’m willing to try.
He wraps his bruised and bleeding fingers around the corroded metal. Slowly, he bends it back and forth. At first, the coil resists his efforts, but gradually it gives way, leaving him holding a rusty spring.
“Now what?” I’m confused by what we’re doing.
He looks at the spring, then at me. “How are you at picking locks?” There’s that sparkle in his eyes. It’s full of determination and hope.
“Considering I’ve never done it before, I have no idea, but I’m certainly up to try.” I glance at the thick iron bars and the massive lock sealing me in. “If you know how, shouldn’t you try first?”
“My hands are a mess. I don’t have the dexterity I need to pick the lock.”
“Okay, what do I do?”
“I’m going to walk you through it.” His voice remains steady despite the weight of the situation. "This lock is a standard pin tumbler lock. Inside the lock, there are a series of pins that fit into corresponding grooves in the key. When the correct key is inserted, the pins align and allow the lock to turn. Our task is to mimic that alignment and turn the lock without a key. I’m going to toss this over to you.” He makes an adjustment to the rusty coil before tossing it between our cells. It bounces against one of the bars and lands outside my cell.
“Shit. It slipped.”
“I think I can get it.” Twisting my body, I stretch my arm out, my fingers straining through the iron bars, brushing the cold floor in an attempt to retrieve the coil.
“Got it!” The rusty coil rests in my palm. "What do I do with it?”
Alec takes a deep breath, his voice calm but filled with urgency. "You use the spring as a tension wrench and another piece of the coil as a pick. Insert the pick into the keyway and push upward, applying gentle pressure. With your other hand, use the spring to create tension by turning it slightly in the direction you want the lock to turn."
My first response is no way in hell can I do this. It’s too complicated. Too foreign. Just too much pressure.
I follow his instructions carefully, gripping the improvised pick and bend it to form a suitable shape. With trembling hands, I insert the pick into the keyway and apply upward pressure, my heart pounding in my chest. I take a deep breath to steady myself.
"Remember," Alec says, his voice filled with reassurance, “listen for the clicks. Each click means a pin has aligned with the shear line. Once all the pins have aligned, the lock will turn."
Click by click, I work the pick and tension wrench, my heart pounding with anticipation. But the lock remains stubbornly resistant, refusing to yield to my efforts. Frustration bubbles within me, threatening to overshadow my determination.
"It's okay," Alec's voice breaks through my mounting frustration, providing encouragement and support. "You're doing great. Keep trying. "
I take a deep breath, willing my trembling hands to steady. With renewed focus, I manipulate the lock, listening intently for any sign of progress. Alec's patience and unwavering support bolsters my resolve, reminding me that failure is not an option.
But still, the lock remains stubbornly closed. Each attempt feels like an exercise in futility, as if the world itself conspires against our escape. Doubt gnaws at me, eroding my confidence. Once again, Alec's voice cuts through my frustration, his words gentle but firm.
"Don't give up. You can do this. I believe in you."
