Page 49 of Pulling Strings

Everything was beige, from the walls to the floors to our one-piece uniforms. The people were only marginally more interesting. Routine had made everything dull, and I’d grown weary of the bruisers arm-wrestling for cigarettes or extra snacks while the small-time crooks clustered around hedging bets.

Guards lurked near the commotion. Not nearly enough of them. Common areas like this were so crowded that passing through meant brushing shoulders with at least five other inmates. I could only hope none of those were having a bad enough day to take physical contact personally.

I crossed the room, stepping over the legs of those deemed unworthy of seats at the tables. Fellow prisoners watched with wide eyes. I was shorter and slimmer than most, so I could weave through a crowd largely unnoticed. At least, I could have if my mug shot hadn’t been featured on every news broadcast for the past three days. They didn’t just have radios in thisplace; there were TVs, too. Even if someone managed to come into Thorngate not knowing who I was, they could pick me out at range now.

“Hey, puppeteer, come over here!” someone shouted.

“Fitch Farrow in the flesh!” another hollered. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

I hadn’t been hiding, just employing an age-old security measure called the Buddy System. Clyde, that barn of a man who kept me up every night with his sleep apnea snores, was my self-assigned partner in this place. My emotional support inmate, as it were.

Carrying my tray and empty cup to where my cellmate sat, I dropped onto the bench beside him. He paid me no mind, staring straight ahead while his jaw moved in circles like a cow chewing cud.

The din in the room swelled around us. Voices competing to be heard drove the volume louder and louder. I had plenty to talk about, but nothing I could really say. Just like in the visitation room, there were ears all over this place, and people willing to rat me out to the guards if I breathed a word about rescue attempts, ill-fated or otherwise.

Clyde took another slurping bite. Barbecue sauce dripped down his chin. When he stopped for a long sip of milk, I broke.

“I don’t think I’ve been the best roommate to you, big guy,” I said.

I’d been told before that I could talk the paint off a wall. Maybe not a braggable skill, but it came in handy trying not to go stir crazy cooped up with my nearly mute bunkie.

I continued, “You know an awful lot about me—anatomically, at least—but I don’t know much about you. I don’t even knowyour full name.”

The plastic utensil looked like a dollhouse miniature in Clyde’s hand as he scooped up slices of hot dog. Unresponsive, per the norm, he left me to suffer in silence, or fill it.

I chose the latter.

“You do magic, right? I mean, don’t we all?” My question and forced laugh didn’t even merit a side-eyed glance.

Blowing out a breath, I turned my attention to the food I’d been pushing around. My stomach grumbled, reminding me the meals would get no better, but I would certainly get hungrier.

I lifted a spork loaded with gluey cheese and stuck it in my mouth. It hung in my throat, thick and gelatinous, until I muscled it down. I’d had enough alcohol in my life to know I’d tasted worse, but I was usually drunk enough not to mind.

“You get a lot of visitors,” Clyde grunted.

Surprise put a smile on my face as I hurried to reply. “Just one. He’s…” I trailed off. It wasn’t wise to throw my brother’s name around. Donovan had been presumed dead for years, and I hoped to keep it that way. Anonymity was critical to him one day achieving that insignificant American dream, as far away from the Bloody Hex as possible.

“He’s worried about me,” I said.

Where did that come from? Too honest. And this was supposed to be a conversation about Clyde, not me.

“Why worried?” the big man asked.

I’d already opened the can of worms and couldn’t stop a few from wriggling out. “He’s afraid I’m not gonna make it out of this alive. Which I won’t if the Capitol has their way about it.”

The spork stood upright when I stabbed it in the mac and cheese. Grimacing, I tried an apple sliceinstead. Sounds, smells, and tastes mingled—none of them great—while my thoughts wandered.

“Hey, do you know anything about the dick who works in the infirmary?” I asked Clyde. “He has a tattoo. Like mine.” I flashed the Hex mark, as though it wasn’t obvious.

Across the room, Jax, York, and Jette sauntered in.

I groaned and hunkered down, shoveling another sporkful of gummy noodles into my mouth. Forget making it past Friday’s trial. I had more immediate threats on my life to deal with.

Jax approached, flanked by his followers. He came up beside me and bent over the table on my left.

“Fitch Farrow,” he greeted, leaning close. “How are you liking life on the inside? Making lots of friends?”

“It’s the vacation I never knew I needed,” I replied. “Plenty of time to relax, socialize and, I mean, the food…” Shaking the tray sent the hot dog slices sliding. “What can I say?”

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