I look around at the white tile and high window. “Where are we?” I ask. The last thing I remember is the prison cell.
“We’re still at the same place,” he says. “This is the warden’s house. Or at least, it used to be. I figure I can keep a better eye on you here.”
The small bathroom doesn’t look anything like the abandoned prison. There’s no graffiti or peeling paint. Everything in it is at least twenty years old, but it doesn’t appear to be abandoned at all. The white tile lining the bottom half of the walls and covering the floor is clean and the claw foot tub, although rusted at the drain, is otherwise intact.
Smoke, seemingly satisfied with the temperature of the water, lifts me again.