The observation wing had no windows to the outside world, but it had twenty interior panes of heavy, chicken-wire glass that looked into twenty identical white-tiled cells.
Mara walked the length of the central catwalk, her boots squeaking against the wet linoleum. Below them, in the drainage tunnel, the secondary evacuation line was already moving: sixteen more walking captives escorted by Dorian and two volunteers from the school annex, their shadows stretching long and thin under the yellow glow of battery lanterns. But Noah had stopped four doors down, his hand resting on the reinforced latch plate of Cell 408.
“This is the serial from Ada’s municipal register,” Noah said. He held up a folded slip of yellow carbon paper, his thumbnail pressing into the crease. “Intake number 88-Delta-Mercer. Admitted September tenth; partial extraction September seventeenth. Body intake 729-A, copied label 88-Delta; moved from Cell Three to observation Cell 408 after our reconnaissance.”
Mara reached the door. Through the wired glass, the room was small—ten feet by eight, illuminated by a single recessed ceiling bulb protected behind a steel cage. A narrow cot with an unpainted iron frame stood bolted to the floor against the far wall. On the edge of the mattress sat a woman with her knees together, her hands folded in her lap.
