The ticking of my pocket watch is keeping me company. I can’t move to see the time—not that it matters—nobody can hear me and they are looking in the wrong place.

  I just wanted out. I needed fresh air and to move freely and stretch my legs; just to get away. Of course, I end up trapped and unable to move, listening to time stroll past, a fitting end for a wasted wish.

  My partner and cellmate, Murph, the rat, got cold feet at the last minute and snitched. Guards were closing in and I panicked. I had to abandon the plan and improvise, and here I am. “Never trust a guy named ‘Murph'“ will be my mantra if I get out of here. But that is a big “if.”

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  The plan was good; I found a way out through walls, a truly slow way, but it was a way out. Two years setting this up, introducing cell-made acids in key areas of the walls, letting it slowly work. Concrete is tough. It takes months for acids to work. I made small holes in walls to pour my mixtures in, refreshing them as often as possible.

  Of course, I didn’t tell “Murph” about every tunnel I made. He didn’t know about this one that I used to escape the guards. But now they are looking in the wrong place.

  I’m thirsty.

  When the pocket watch stops, it will be thirty-six hours since I went in.

  Tick, tick, tick…