Lydia came to, her body adorned with pearls of sweat, the heat of the day already rising to make the tiny cell a box of withering heat. The very air was saturated with moisture and raised to a temperature where the humidity could be discerned in every breath, the fires warming the lungs. The tropical climate had her dizzy and feeling weak, her skin tickling and riven with flushes that crept along her spine. It was only morning and already she was being cooked. What would she do when the midday sun had finished lashing the walls of this communal oven? She had never been able to adapt to heat, and had always loathed the coming of summer for this very reason. Yet she had chosen to send herself to warmer climates for her vacation, but she could handle idleness in the heat, the lazing around in the sun with cool drinks, watching the world about her battle to work in the heat. It was toil she could not face. Would she be called upon to perform chores or labor in this prison? Or was she to simply lounge here in the insufferable hell, contemplating her supposed crime, sweating out her guilt?
