Chapter 115

**Sloane**

Throughout the day, we sleep in small bursts. We rehearse exits in our heads. We use the bucket, we hide crumbs, we test the hinges. We catalogue every little detail: which guard limps, where the keys hang, which vent coughs when someone passes. By dusk, the place is a pressure cooker. We lock our breath, count the minutes, and wait for the footsteps that mean he’s arrived.

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