Patrick's ribs ached and his shoulder burned. He strained his ears, eager for sound, but there was nothing. The darkness hurt his eyes and he closed them, only to have them pop open again, as if afraid he'd miss something.

The chains on his arms were long enough to give slack, so he massaged his injuries and even used the hateful bucket. He didn't know how much longer he had. Minutes? Hours? Days? They'd left Chelsea in a box for two weeks because he'd thrown up on the floor. ...