His tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth, and when he tried to move his head, blinding pain warned him to remain still. He cracked open one eye, then the other, and found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. Paint was peeling off the once-white ceiling, and grey cinderblocks formed the walls of a room barely bigger than a walk-in closet. Opposite him, a metal door broke the symmetry of the brickwork. Something tickled his cheek, and when he tried to swat it away, he found his arms unable to move. The restraints felt like leather, and he soon discovered that his feet had been similarly shackled. The pain in his head continued to pound, and he closed his eyes, welcoming the slip back into unconsciousness. When he woke again, the headache had subsided a little, but the thirst remained. He tried to remember what had happened, but all he could recall was being tied up in the farmhouse and sitting opposite Scarface. Had they taken him to another location to work on him? The farm smell was no longer evident, so he assumed they must have.
