There was no water and no food.

He was carrying a hood and a pair of handcuffs. The hood was stained with little smudges and smears of brown.

Donkey’s expression was gleeful.

Faik shrank away, but there was nowhere for him to go.

The guards crowded into the cell.

Donkey pressed him back against the wall.

“It is time for a little chat,” he said.

The two guards took his arms and restrained him as Donkey pulled the hood over his head. It was made from burlap, coarse against his skin. Little pinpricks of light hovered before his eyes. They fastened it with a drawstring, yanking it so hard that it bit into his throat.

Something heavy smacked into his face, his chin, and the pinpricks of light were extinguished.

He was too woozy to pay much attention to where he was being taken. Two of the guards were on either side of him, dragging him down the corridor, the rubber soles of his sandals squealing against the linoleum. A door was opened and he was thrown inside. His hands had been cuffed, and he landed heavily, the resounding impact against his chin snuffing out the consciousness that had started to return.

Minutes passed.

The hood was yanked away without warning.

Bright, artificial lights.

Starbursts exploded in his eyes.

He squeezed them shut.

Strong hands scooped beneath his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. He lolled helplessly as his arms were held out, cold steel bracelets snapping around his wrists. His arms were released, and there was a clank as the chains to which the cuffs were fastened took his weight.

“Wake up.”

His head drooped loosely, his chin against his chest.

“Wake up, you son of a whore.”

He gasped as a pail of cold water was upturned over his head. The shock ousted the last wisps of his stupor, and his eyes flicked open.

He was in the same interrogation room as before. The hose had been curled in the corner next to a sodden blanket. He was suspended from two chains which ran up to pulleys fixed into the ceiling. The guards held a chain each and they pulled down hard, jerking his arms straight up into the air, lifting him so that his toes just barely scraped against the floor. His sandals slipped off his feet. The muscles in his shoulders and the tops of his arms protested from the sudden effort of bearing his weight.

There was no camera this time. The tripod was still there, but it was empty.

Two powerful lights burned into his face.

Donkey was in front of him.

Faik still felt giddy, his sight distorted, double vision that made everything look blurred and ghostly.

“You are a terrorist,” Donkey said to him.

Faik mumbled a denial.

“What?”

Faik mumbled again.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I am . . . not . . .”

“You organised the riot, did you not?”