He shut his eyes. The bunk was hard, but not too hard. If he shut his eyes and tried to think very hard of Hugh Horner and Hugh Horner's life, pretty soon he would wake up and the nightmare would be over.
He shuddered. He was only fooling himself, he knew. This was no reserprine dream. This was—incredibly—the real thing.
He heard footsteps.
He stood up, adrenalin coursing through his veins and making him feel vital and alive and ready for anything. Footsteps meant the guard was coming, but the gray light streaming in through the window told Horner that it was barely dawn and there would be no reason for a guard to come so purposefully in this direction unless Forbish had squealed. So, if the guard came now, which seemed likely, the guard would come seeking their tunnel.
Lonnie's and Jake's—not Horner's. Horner had had nothing to do with it. No. Certainly not.
But Horner was going to serve Lonnie Overman's life-term in prison—for murder. And Horner would be punished for the attempted escape. Punishment? He was already serving a life-term. Solitary-confinement, probably. He was innocent. He had done nothing, except wish for youth. It wasn't fair, he told himself. It was terribly, tragically unfair. He wanted his freedom.
"Hey you, Overman," the guard said. He stood outside the cell, holding the bars. "I can't see so good in there. Where's Halrohan?"
Halrohan was Jake. "Sleeping," Horner said.
The guard scowled and squinted. "Bunk looks like it's empty," he said.