CHAPTER ELEVEN: Eh, What’s Up, Doc?
Ambros sat, teetering on the edge of a straight-backed chair, his hands still behind him. He’d been awake since seven or so on Wednesday morning. “It has to be nearly 5 AM on Thursday,” he said, loudly. Maybe someone would hear him, now that the graveyard shift was over and day-shift cops would be in the building.
“Okay,” he said, a little less loudly: “I need to pee, and I need sleep. I’ll get neither while I’m bound like this.” The need to piss was becoming urgent. He set to work, lying down on the floor, working his bound hands downward. It was trick they’d all practiced, in his affinity group: “Get your hands in front of you, at any cost. Even cuffed, you’re better off that way.”
It took a while, but he knew he could do it. He kept the pressure on: push, rest, push. Finally he was there, pushing his legs between his arms, and then slumping in exhaustion.
Not for long, though: “Piss. Piss, piss.” He wasn’t cussing; he was obsessing. He dragged himself over to the trashcan and lifted the hem of his kilt.
“Aahh,” he said. He sat back on the floor, relieved.
He looked at his wrists: he was bound with a plain zip-tie. “Like one you’d use to gather up wires or something.” It was tight enough to be digging in to his skin and chafing his wrists badly. He shrugged: the plastic was thicker and tougher than he’d hoped, but the solution was the same. “Chew, gnaw, bite,” he said, unhappily. He began the job, jawing away at the plastic.
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