He turns to face me. “This cage is a necessary precaution.”

“It’s not right.” I shuffle toward him, the heavy chain between my ankles pulling tight on every step. “I don’t deserve a cage. I haven’t done anything.” Panic raises my voice to a shout.

Flanagan’s tone softens. “Michael, I know you fear enclosure. I’ve been helping you with your claustrophobia since your first day.”

His sympathetic look pisses me off. I lean in and jut my chin up. “I don’t fear the damn cage, all right? I’m just not a pissing dog.”

He steps close enough for our chests to almost touch and looks down at me. I stand my ground. I’ll not be intimidated—even by a man who can rip my head off. But his eyes stay gentle as they roam my glare.

“This is not a punishment. The precautions are for your safety as well as ours. Have something to eat and rest. I’ll meet you in Quinton’s office.”

The care in his tone unsettles me more than his anger. It has a familiar intimacy I don’t understand. I back away with a scowl. “I need the john. Or do prisoners not get their basic needs met here?”

Flanagan lets out a slow breath, then points to the end of the bed.

I follow the line of his finger to a bucket on the floor. “You’re kidding me. Where’s the toilet?”

“You had a toilet. You used it as a weapon. Now you have a bucket.”

I check his face for what must be a joke, but his expression lacks humor. “I used the toilet as a weapon?”

“You yanked it from the floor and threw it at me.”

“I did?” I try not to sound so pleased with that image.

Flanagan gives me a dry look, arching an eyebrow. He turns to leave the cage.

“I don’t remember any of that,” I fire at his back. “You could be making that shit up for all I know.”

Laasya returns, and when he’s locked the cage, he hands the keys to her. As he exits the room, his boots fall on the stone floor with almost complete silence. He moves with a grace that doesn’t belong to a man of his size.

Pulling my gaze away, I take in long breaths. The collar feels like a noose. My fingers tingle with the warning a panic attack is imminent, and nausea roils my stomach. I’m used to these symptoms, though. I just need to keep my mind focused on other things. Like this upcoming interview and getting out of this cage. But mostly discovering what this Blackriver place has to do with my parents. That’s the main reason I’m here. How I’ll pull that off, though, I’ve no idea.

Laasya’s watching me through the bars. Her tilted head and soft frown suggest I’m a dangerous but wounded animal in need of special care. “I’m right here, Michael. We won’t leave you alone in the cage. I brought you a sandwich.” She pushes the paper bag through a gap. “It’s not much, but it’ll do for now. Then we can walk to Councilor Quinton’s office.”