Work Text:
Liam’s shirt is soaked. Again. From Brooklyn’s summer heat. From nightmares provoked by surrounding walls.
They’re as tight as the shed was.
This room, however, has a window.
Adapting to its light has taken ten days.
Sometimes, the draw of Liam’s violin bow will lure in a breeze and cool his skin. Remind him how nature works. Mother, not human. Humans aren’t merciful.
When the bathroom opens, a voice cuts through fresh steam.
Hurry. We can afford five minutes.
Liam assesses the man’s outstretched hand. Unfurled. Looking for his to guide, far beyond their narrow shower.
To it, he clings.