He finds the prisoner brave, even now with her back turned to the cell door and the cold nipping at her bare flesh. Her arm is extended above her, a pillow for her head to give it more cushion than the hard cot has to offer. He doesn't even know her name- all she is is a string of numbers, a carrier of information that his less-than-savory associates haven't yet drawn out of her bloodied lips. She looks broken, pieces of her scattered in shards across the floor, but he knows that she will erect a wall to hide the cracks when interrogation time comes again. And he is shamed. He drops the blanket in his hands down by the side of the cot and turns to leave before he sees whether or not she turns to pick it up. He doesn't deserve her gratitude.
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