Marlon lay sprawled on the cold stone floor of his cell, his wrists chained to the wall.
His lips were cracked and dry, his tongue swollen and sticking to the roof of his mouth.
Every breath scraped his throat like sandpaper.
"Water," he croaked, his voice little more than a rasp. "Please… water…"
From outside the bars, one of the agents snapped, "Be quiet. You've had water."
But Marlon didn't stop.
He lifted his head, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. "Water! Please! I'm dying…"
Another agent barked at him, "Shut it, you've had three cups already!"
It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
The thirst clawed at his insides, a savage, tearing hunger that was nothing like ordinary dehydration.
His throat burned as if lit by coals, his stomach twisting. Sweat rolled off his skin as tremors took him.
He tried to lick the damp stones for moisture, but his tongue found only grit.
His vision swam, black spots darting at the edges.
