He awoke, felt the cold air on his skin. The cell, hard and small, was his world. Once, concrete had been his emancipator, a gateway to the stars. Now it was a prison. Day after day spent in this small space. Sometimes they would come, sometimes he spent the whole day alone with the bed, the toilet, the walls plastered with maps. He didn’t know what time it was, what day it was. He didn’t know how old he was. On the bad days, which were becoming more frequent, the dread more continuous, he had started to forget his own name. He muttered it under his breath, a spell for survival, as he sat up and stretched. Man he felt old, like he’d already been buried. The maps had been rotated again, images of London old and new pinned to the walls and embedded in his mind. He closed his eyes, tried to remember the wind on his face, his hands on the wheel, the endless road opening up before him. Heard the key in the lock and rolled back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over his face, started to beg before it even started. Retreated into a dream of the city, back when it was predictable, back when you could count on it. Then he screamed.