The guards began handing out plates.
People scrambled forward, desperate for food.
Zaara guided me, pressing herself close to my side. She kept one hand hooked around my elbow.
We sat. I stared down at my tray: a steaming bowl of chicken soup, a scoop of white rice, a piece of flatbread, and a small wedge of pineapple. My fingers were shaking as I picked up the spoon.
Silence reigned, broken only by the scrape of utensils.
After a few minutes, Zaara reached over, brushing the side of my hand.
"Eat, Vincent," she urged gently. "Your body needs it."
I forced myself to swallow a spoonful. I can't believe it's be 48 hours and I haven't eaten anything.
After dinner, the guards picked up the plates. People whispered into each other's shoulders. A few curled up under thin blankets.
Zaara grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the locker area, away from the others. The metallic door creaked shut behind us.
