He didn’t have long to wait.

The guard with the shotgun went off shift, to be replaced by a man Faik recognised. No one knew his name, but since he had a cruel, braying laugh, he had quickly become known as hîmaar, or Donkey. He was a regular, and renowned for his sadism. He had spat into Faik’s bowl of rice on his first day inside, and there were stories of his particularly enthusiastic participation in the six-on-one beatings that the guards used to punish those inmates who had done something that they found objectionable. He was also a heavy drinker, and Faik had noticed that he was often drunk while he was on shift. Tonight, Donkey was sweating heavily and he reeked of alcohol again; perhaps that was why he misread the atmosphere.

One of the inmates stood up and walked over to the door. He was a young man called Abdul, just a little older than Faik, and of a similarly slight build. He would not have been the sort to arouse wariness or suspicion.

He called Donkey to come over.

The man swore in irritation, but raised himself from the chair and, with his shotgun held loosely at his side, came closer to the bars of the cell.

“What?”

Abdul grabbed Donkey by the collar of his shirt and yanked hard, pulling him onto the bars. His head bounced off the metal, and he grunted in pain and surprise. A second inmate, Abdul’s older brother Tarik, leapt to his feet and reached through to grab the guard’s flailing left arm, pulling hard so that he was trapped against the bars. He dropped the shotgun and shouted in sudden fear, but the other guards were in the guardhouse with a crate of Asrihah arak and oblivious to what was going on outside. Donkey kept his keys on a loop that hung from his belt, right next to his revolver. Abdul tore the keys from the belt and Tarik reached for the revolver. Donkey fought desperately, punching through the bars with his right fist and managing to hold him off.

But now Abdul had the cell door open.

“Come on!” he yelled.

Donkey freed his arm and staggered away from the bars. He thought about the shotgun on the floor, saw the open gate and the men who were pouring out of it, and fled.

Tarik hurried outside and took the shotgun.

The other prisoners hurried to get out.

Faik stayed at the back. He felt sick with fright. He was unable to move.

The engineer started for the door, paused, looked back at him and then pushed through the scramble until he was close enough to reach down and pull him up.

“Come on,” he said, urgently, his eyes flashing. “You can’t stay here. We have to go.”

“They’ll shoot us.”

“And what will they do if we stay?”

Faik looked into his face and saw resolution. He allowed himself to be pulled up and to the open door and out into the corridor beyond.