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clinked and clanked my boot for another few minutes, echoing the sound throughout the gloomy underground tunnels.
    “I can do this all day,” I called out with exaggerated cheerfulness.
    “Enough,” the guard on the left groaned, finally breaking his silence. He was addressing me, but not making any attempt to establish eye contact; he stared awkwardly at the middle distance while he spoke, eyes bulging with concentration. “We can’t feed you, we can’t entertain you, and we sure as heck can’t talk to you.”
    “You just did,” the guard on the right blurted out, his eyes apparently fixed on the same thing that Leftie’s were.
    “I know,” Left replied sharply. “But I was only talking to her so she’d know that we can’t talk to her, all right?”
    Right groaned under his breath, rolling his eyes. “You really are a mental giant, you know that? Don’t you know that they have cameras down here? What if someone is monitoring us? If they play back the recording and discover that –”
    “Discover what?” a curious voice asked, the sound traveling down the spiraling brick staircase. It was Dawson. He emerged from the opening with a torch in–hand, casting a bright orange hue against the damp dungeon walls. He was still wearing his armor and had a tan satchel slung across his chest.
    “Nothing!” the guard on the right said, so stiffly that his lips barely moved.
    “He’s telling the truth,” Left confirmed, remaining equally still. “Oh, please don’t tell your father I spoke to the prisoner. If he finds out ...”
    “He won’t,” Dawson assured the guards. He stopped at the base of the stairs and glanced from one guard to the other, then back towards the staircase. “You’re both dismissed for the evening.”
    The guards exchanged glances without even craning their necks.
    Dawson let out a goofy laugh. “The whole ‘dismissed’ thing only works when your feet move. Are either of you confused about the concept?”
    Without further instruction the guards hurried up the spiraling staircase and out of view.
    Dawson approached the bars to my cell as he unbuckled the latches on his satchel and reached inside. “How are things?”
    “Can’t complain,” I shrugged. “Aside from the lack of food, sunlight and human interaction it’s been pretty relaxing. Actually I’m not too concerned about that last one.”
    He pulled a rumpled paper bag from his satchel and passed it through the bars, dropping it into my hands. I could smell the freshly baked goodness even before I tore it open.
    “I hope you like chocolate chip.” He raised his eyebrows as I shoveled the warm cookies into my mouth, barely allowing myself enough time to chew. “Are they good?”
    “Good?” I mumbled in between bites, continuing to cram pastries into my face with reckless abandon. There’s something about being imprisoned that makes everything taste extra yummy. “ That is an understatement, Galahad.”
    His leaned forward on the bars, letting his head sag. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, a trace of defeat etched in his voice. “Drake had been following us and saw that you were in the control room. One call to my dad, and ...” he grumbled, burying his face in his hands. “My family sucks.”
    After crumpling the bag and brushing the crumbs off on my shirt I reached through the bars. I wiped Dawson’s floppy blond hair aside. “ Everyone’s family sucks sometimes. But at least you have people who care about you. Back in 2041 I had friends, but ...” I stopped myself mid-sentence, realizing that I was thinking aloud. I was once again waxing nostalgic about a time in my life when I felt like I was a part of something. My friends were the only family I’d ever really had, and people who complained about their families – no matter how overbearing or annoying or infuriating they could be – simply didn’t know how good they had it. “There was nothing you could have done differently.”
    “I guess.” He