they turn left again. it's the fifth left turn in the past twenty minutes. the corridors are longer than they seem. their feet hurt. they haven't seen a window in what feels like days. they don't really want to see a window- if it's not blast shielded; the angels might break through, even if they are, they still might. their bedroom periodically appears. they're not sure what will happen if they sleep. they don't seem to need sleep anymore.
they keep walking. will their jumpsuit get raggedy eventually or stay frozen in time, they wonder?
it drags at them. the way they are slowing down like a fly does in resin, in amber. like living in the impossibly stretched out time of a black hole, only you don't die to free your consciousness from torment.
their grip tightens.
they do not hold it out as they walk. the doll is all they have. they won't bare it to the vulnerability of possibly being dropped as they travel onwards, nor will they let it go unmonitored when their supplies have vanished right off their belt.
