Thumb, mouth, rock, hum. The rhythm of survival, the only comfort left in my world of darkness. I nestle deeper into my nest of torn blankets in the corner of my cell, arranging them just so with practiced fingers. Six years in this place has taught me the importance of small comforts. The blankets smell like me, only me, the one scent that doesn't trigger fear or pain. I've been blind for – months? years? time collapses in on itself when you live in perpetual night – but my other senses ...