Abram was used to such, and it usually turned out to be a ploy to get him assaulted.
He didn't bother to lift his head as it would probably earn him another round of beatings or insults. Maybe they'd come to toss his tray in like they always did — no cutlery, of course. He no longer got those, as they were considered a luxury.
Before he could figure out who had said that, two guards marched in and dragged him from his cell like a sack of meat — bruised, broken, barely clothed, his lip was split. One eye swollen shut. His dignity long gone.
But someone had requested to see him.
A visitor. That in itself was a miracle.
'Who would want to see me?' He wondered.
When allowed to move on his own again, he limped into the glass-walled visitation booth and slumped onto the metal chair. The chill bit through his bones, but it was nothing compared to what walked through the other side.
He blinked, surprised at the person.
No. It couldn't be.
Him.
