He wore a coarse grey hospital gown, his shoulders hunched forward.

His hair was completely white, long and tangled, falling over his face.

He was holding a small wooden carving of a bird, his thin fingers tracing the wings over and over.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.

It was him.

Despite the grey hair, the hollow cheeks, and the years of isolation, I knew those hands.

He had carved that exact same bird for me when I was a little girl.

“Dad,” I whispered against the cold glass.

The man in the cell froze, his fingers stopping their movement on the wooden bird.

He slowly began to turn his head toward the door.

Just as his eyes met mine through the glass, a loud, shrill alarm began to blare from the ceiling above us.

The red emergency lights flashed, bathing the concrete corridor in a bloody glow.

Dr. Kenneth jumped back, his face filled with sheer terror.

“No,” he gasped, his keys clattering to the floor.

“They know you’re here.”

Before Charles could react, the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor slammed shut with a deafening metallic clang.