Bruce idly dismisses Tim’s anxiousness about hanging onto him, pushing his hand into the tense base of Tim’s spine and letting his own eyes fall shut. His mind ticks backs the seconds, minutes, days with machinelike ease. One hundred and forty-four days, with two spaces of freedom in between like burning gulps of air after suffocating too long.

“Two months,” he says. “Since I last managed to leave.”

The realization that they’re keeping Tim in isolation comes on in waves that threaten to stir the anger sitting dormant in his chest. He’s been in solitary as well, ever since his last escape, but he’s used to it, has spent weeks buried in living tombs with nothing but his mind to keep him company. His throat is burning, his mind stuttering out ideas haltingly, because he hasn’t let himself think about it since he came back, how best to keep alive all that might be left of what he loves.