Evan Barrett: Open
Evan sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms resting loosely on the top. His back ached from the hardness of the two-short cot, and the place where they'd chipped him was still sore; he swore that the needle had been the size of a fireman's hose. He'd stretch, do some yoga, but there wasn't really room, and the negative energy of the room was too strong.
He'd worked through most of his anger pacing the length of a tiny holding cell, but enough remained to make the muscles across his shoulders feel tight.
One month. One month until he turned thirty, and the lottery had caught him at age twenty-nine and eleven months. He hoped something was having a good laugh at his expense.
Evan unfolded gracefully and stood to his full height. He stretched his arms above his head, and his scrub shirt rode up on his belly. He wondered if whomever watched from behind that mirror appreciated the view, and he gave them a dark-eyed glare from the corner of his eye.
He remembered seeing documentaries on old zoos, where they'd kept big cats penned up, how they'd pace, back and forth, back and forth, and Evan knew just how they must have felt, restless, frustrated, angry. He and most everyone else felt that way. He'd been cooperative, because he'd seen others, not feeling so inclined, hit with shock rods. That wasn't something he wished to experience and besides, it was pointless; this place was a fortress. No place to run, even if he gained a moment's freedom.
All he could do was to wait, and see what happened in the auction room.