I took some perverse pleasure in how annoying it must have been for my two attackers to have to keep bending down. With the speed of the walking, and the constant pressure on my back from the man named Pete, I didn’t see much as we passed through each room. Finally, we stepped into a room larger than all the others. It seemed to be some kind of storage area. Shelves ran across the walls, each one packed with boxes, lids taped down, like it was some kind of archive. If I hoped that was it, I was wrong. From there, we changed direction, passing through another series of other rooms, each getting increasingly larger, the air slightly clearer. They were cluttered with large pieces of furniture; chairs, tables, consoles from all different eras, and dozens of boxes, thickly taped again. Passing through another corridor, we arrived at a set of steps. Pete, the prison guard, gave me a rough shove forward, simultaneously releasing my wrists. Momentarily unbalanced, I slipped, throwing my hands forward, and scraping the heels of my palms on the steps.
