ANYA’S POVThe concrete in my cell had three distinct, soul-crushing textures.There was the smooth, polished section near the heavy steel door—a relic of the building's original construction. Then there was the rough, jagged patch where someone, years ago, had tried to scrub away a stain that still looked suspiciously like dried blood. Finally, there was the cold, damp stretch near the floor where the condensation from the pipes gathered in a slow, rhythmic drip. I knew every millimeter of it. I had spent the last four hours conducting a mental audit of the masonry.One star, I thought, my head leaning back against the freezing stone. Poor lighting. Zero amenities. The service is aggressive, and the 'open floor plan' is a lie. Would not recommend for a weekend getaway.The sarcasm was the only thing standing between me and the screaming panic clawing at the base of my throat. I was Anya Miller, the girl who had made a career out of being the smartest person in the room, yet here I was
Read more