I pace my prison cell, the harsh, gray fabric of my jumpsuit rubbing at my skin even through the white t-shirt I wear beneath.

The CIA prison isn't as Spartan as an ordinary one, the cell at least twenty feet wide, but the full glass front wall is disconcerting. They like watching me, giving me privacy only in the bathroom I can visit as often as I want. Even then, though, I feel the prying minds of other psychics. They might not be as strong as I am alone, but the bosses seem ...