The string tied to my left ring finger is tugging rhythmically, Red must be awake. I tug back my reply.
– G’morning Red. Sleep well?
My cell is small, barely more than my arm span, and not so tall that I can stand to my full height. It is smooth and warm; a soft grey infused with light from an unknown source. The floors and walls curve to meet each other, cocooning me, seamless, save for the ten small holes which provide my only connection to a world outside.
Through each hole runs a fine, taught thread, each of which terminates at one of my fingers. Some have colours, like my friend Red. Others are patterns, like Throbber and Slow-wave. Jerk is aggressive, Faint is hard to feel, and Silent hasn’t tugged once. Ever.
– Not at all, signals Red, something’s wrong.