Taken (Erin Bowman)

prison.

THIRTEEN
    AT FIRST I PANIC. I tug on the door frantically, and when it doesn’t give, I sink to the floor and bury my face in my hands. I shouldn’t have trusted these people. Maybe this was Marco’s plan all along. Maybe he never had any intention of helping us. My stomach twists at the thought of Emma also in a cell, trapped somewhere in this massive building, and me, powerless to help her. I lash out in frustration, punching the door behind me.
    “That won’t do any good, you know,” a voice croaks from the corner, “losing your temper.” I’d forgotten I had a cell mate. I can’t see his face and I don’t really care.
    “You’re new,” he remarks, his fingers tapping against stone in the dark. They create a funny little rhythm, an awkward beat that is always just a hair off, as if a finger has darted out against his will and struck rock prematurely. “Which group did you come from?”
    “I’m sorry?” I don’t feel like talking, especially not to some man so gone he’s been given a nickname that induces ridicule. Clown means nothing to me, but I heard the way Marco pronounced it, saw the way his lips curled around the word.
    “Group,” the man says again. “What group are you from? A? B?”
    “Look,” I snap, unsure what he’s talking about, “I’m not from any group . And I’m not from Taem, either.”
    He shuffles out of the corner, crouching beneath the low ceiling, and into the little light that filters through the window of our cell door. The man is gawky, thin. There are creases and wrinkles on his face, and he has a gray beard that grows in haphazard patches. His eyes appear as if he has not slept in weeks, and his dark clothes are tattered and worn.
    “An outsider, eh?” He flashes me a crazed grin. “You like it there? Outside the city?” His fingers dance over the stonework again, tapping frantically as he speaks.
    “It was better than here,” I admit.
    The man breaks into a terrible cackle at this comment, throwing his head back like a wild dog and howling deeply. “I like you,” he says. “Quite a sense of humor.” I don’t tell him I wasn’t trying to be funny. He laughs until he’s worn himself out, and then his fingers are back to tapping.
    From behind us, somewhere down the hall, there is the sound of footsteps approaching and then guards talking. I try to make out what’s being said, but Bozo’s tapping grows louder, as if he is deliberately trying to block out the conversation. He rocks back and forth on his heels, and mumbles—no, sings—to himself.
    “Five red berries in a row, sown with love so that they’ll grow. Five red berries in a row, sown with love so that they’ll grow.”
    He repeats it, over and over, his voice raspy. It almost sounds like a lullaby. Almost. The words are echoing in our tiny cell, and soon I can’t tell which are his and which are just bouncing back to me off the walls.
    “Will you shut up?” I snap. He freezes, looks at me, tugs at the hair on his head. “I’m trying to hear what they’re saying. At the end of the hall.”
    He doesn’t seem to care. The tapping continues, as does the singing, the same two lines and nothing more. His hands are moving across the stones so quickly that they become a massive blur of flesh. I notice the faded imprint of a triangle on his dark, fraying top. Was this madman once like the uniformed men in Taem? Like Marco and Pete?
    “Five red berries in a row, sown with love so that they’ll grow. Five red berries in a row, sown with love—”
    “So that they’ll grow! I get it. Enough already.”
    He stops tapping and sits bolt upright, nearly banging his head on the low ceiling. And then he’s scuttling across the floor like a spider, until he’s right before me, his face so close I can smell his sour breath.
    “Do you know that song?” he asks, his nose practically touching mine.
    I push him away. “I’ve got the first two lines memorized, thanks to you.”
    He deflates. “And the rest?”
    I shake my head. He starts tapping and singing, but doesn’t move back to his corner. I lean away from him, put my ear to the door, and listen for the guards. I hear nothing but footsteps. They are growing louder and louder, until they come to a standstill just outside our cell. Someone is wrestling with the door. Bozo clutches his knees and rocks. “Five red berries in a row, sown with love so that they’ll grow.”
    There’s the click of the plate and then light