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>"Well, if he doesn't," replied the woman, "at least we won't have to worry >about feeding him." David hung onto that glimmer of hope he heard in a captor's voice. >He felt the shackles being released, but the agony of being lifted by his >broken wrist took him over the edge into blackness. >When he awoke, he was back in a cell on the floor, but not bound at all. He >was wearing clothes, his wrist was immobile, and there was a cold pack on >his face, over his eye. The floor was cold, but he could move his body for >the first time in what he thought was two days. It ached with sore, stiff >muscles. His ribs hurt, and it hurt to breathe, but his ribs were bound >tightly to keep them from moving too much and puncturing a lung. He backed himself and got himself into a sitting situation where he caught his breath against the pain. He was not good at steeling himself against pain but he sucked in enough air to function and stood. >There was a bucket with water in it not too far away, and a blanket slipped >off him as he moved. Beneath him was straw - not enough to keep warm, but >compared to the stone floor, was not as bad as it could have been. It was >similar to the cell he'd been in before, stone walls, no windows, only a >wooden door with a small barred square cut in it. The outfit he had on was >a jumpsuit similar to some he'd seen on the rebel fighters; it was probably >whatever they'd had around. It was a little baggy, but given the >swollenness of his body, that might not be a bad thing. He stumbled to the bucket and eased himself down to his knees in front of it, grunting in pain as he dropped. He washed off whatever cuts he could see and rolled the jumpsuit sleeves up to add padding. Then he bunched up the straw into a big pile and laid down in the middle of it and tried to get some rest.
