Henry Yair is hoarse from screaming. His raw throat burns. Something is about to happen, something terrible. Second to second he knows this worst possible thing, unimaginable, unknowable, is about to hit him NOW. This terrible thing is going to happen NOW.
He’s so afraid, his breathing is so shallow, that he can barely inhale.
He crouches in the corner of the cold cell all night, waiting, braced for impact, as Adam Black’s blood dries and flakes from his hands and face.
The day sneaks up outside, noisily, redly, and Henry Yair knows nothing now. Not what is happening or where he is or where he’s been or why. All he can think of is trampled meat and how glad he will be when this life is over.
He is in Hell.
