I can trace every outline of my ribs. It tickles slightly when I do it and yesterday I did it so much the skin on my right side feels raw and still tingles when anything brushes against it. Sleep takes up most of the day and night. It’s easier to sleep now than it was before. The first few days I was terrified they’d come if I closed my eyes, but now I know they barely come at all. Unless we do something against the rules, they stay upstairs and forget about us. That’s what I pray for, for them to forget about us, even if that means we don’t eat for days.

The soft sound of his throat clearing comes with a hollow look. There’s a darkness around his eyes; I’m certain mine must mirror his.

“Do you think they’re gone?” he whispers and I nod although I don’t make the nod too obvious. They have cameras to keep an eye on us and they don’t like us talking. They let the dogs in if we talk. I don’t want to see the dogs. He knows that. I’m certain he does.

It’s so quiet that I can hear when his head thuds against the wall. Looking in his direction, his eyes are closed and he looks as tired as I feel. But more than that, he’s terrified.

“How did you get here?” I ask just to say something to distract him from his own mind, but I hate the unspoken follow-up question that begs to be asked.

“I was walking home from school,” he says and as he answers his pointer finger draws on the cement. From the other side of the cell, I can’t see what he’s tracing.

“Where do you go to school?”

“I don’t know the name but my teacher is Miss Harrow. She teaches the kindergarteners.”

He’s younger than me. I almost ask him how old he is and what his name is, but the door to the upstairs suddenly opens. My first thought is that they’re sending down the dogs but it’s not. It’s worse. Much worse.

My shoulders slam against the brick wall as I hear a loud clang of a gate followed by a grunt. They’re back. Terrified eyes pierce into mine and with a quick and rushed movement, I gesture for the boy to come over to my side of the cell. His bare feet leave a sound I wish was the only sound I could hear, a pattering of small feet on the damp ground.

But the heavy boots outweigh the pitter-patter and even more so a muffled cry. A small voice that begs for help. The boy trembles next to me, smaller, weighing less and wearing less too. He’s cold, so cold but the shaking is from the same fear that works its way through my bones. My right arm wraps around his small body and I try to stay strong for him, forcing my eyes to stay open as we huddle in the corner farthest away from the iron gate. I watch because he doesn’t, he closes his eyes tight. One of us has to watch. This time it’s me.