If Reed is bothered that I’ve insulted him, he doesn’t show it. Expression calm, he walks to the nightstand, where a pitcher and cup wait, and peers inside. “There’s water here. I’ll make sure someone brings you dinner.”

“Is this how every prisoner is treated, or am I special?”

“Your pack lives with the other fieldworkers in the shanties along the lower dam. Backbone housing is only for the General and his top Loyalists.”

“Backbone?”

“The mesa that these rooms have been built into.”

“Right. Best conditions for the army, and shanties for the workers. But everyone’s here by choice, so my pack must have picked that.”

Reed sighs heavily. “You’re making this harder than it has to be. Just give the General what he wants and you’ll all be able to live in these conditions permanently. You and every member of your pack, if you request it.”

“See how that requires me to give him something first—how I don’t have a choice? Or is this too complex for you?”

“I think you should drink some water. You’re not feeling well.”

I actually laugh a little. He’s right. I’m not feeling well. In fact, the room is slightly blurry, and when I blink, the edges of my window seem to ripple. Curse Asher and his rotten advice. How am I supposed to stay alive if I can’t drink anything?

My gaze trails to the waterskin on Reed’s hip. It hangs from a braided strap slung across his torso, and by the way the pouch puckers, I’d guess it’s half full. The dryness in my mouth becomes unbearable.

Don’t drink anything given to me, sure. But water the General and his soldiers willingly drink . . .

“I’ll be stationed outside your room all night, so don’t try to run,” Reed says. “And don’t bother with the window. No one has ever escaped that way without falling to their death.”

Adjusting his grip on his rifle, he gives me a curt nod and strides for the exit. Before I can think too much about the consequences, I grab the waterskin and yank it with the little strength I have left. My efforts combined with his quick pace is enough. The braided cord snaps, and the skin is mine. I raise it to my lips as Reed’s falcon lifts from his shoulder in surprise. I choke and sputter on the drink, half of it splashing down my front. My throat is so raw I’ve nearly forgotten how to swallow.

“Hey!” Reed grabs my wrist and pulls me nearer, pinning my arm and the waterskin between our fronts. With the ram-skull still on his forehead, he seems impossibly tall. My ripped shirt has slipped off one shoulder, and his gaze dips to my front, lingers a second, comes back to my face.