I sit rigid at the simple steel table, sweaty palms making damp patches on it. That thin column of light in the far corner makes me nervous. I know how much it burns.
They say I’ve been testing for five years, but I can’t be sure. I stopped counting after the first few.
They say I’ve paid my debt.
They say that they’re going to take me home. I’m not sure if I can believe it. If it’s another test.
I still don’t know who they are.
God, I need a coffee.