Your arm’s bleeding,’ Charlie said. Amy’s scratch marks were turning into open sores. ‘I can’t help it, Charl. They’re just so itchy all the time. I have to scratch them.’ ‘You’ve got to try and help it, though. Those scratches are going to go bad ways.’ It was what Daddy always said to her if she picked a scab or messed with a sore. She’d never seen what ‘bad ways’ was but it didn’t sound nice. She had tried to occupy Amy’s mind by making her walk around the room with her. Together they had strolled around the tiny space while hanging on to the towel that now smelled as bad as they did. That movement was the only thing that stopped the chattering of their teeth and the cold from biting into their bones. After their last meal Charlie had scratched an eighth stick into the brick. A stick for each meal. She had noticed that it was taking much longer to do than the first time. Her strokes were not as forceful and she would lose the groove she’d made.
