During the two days and nights he slept, many people talked about him. Plenty thought he was dead rather than asleep, but every time the guards came to check, they denied it. Gradually, those voices died away, and no one cared whether he lived or died anymore.
The only person who had any dealings with him at three set times each day was the man in the neighboring cell. He did not care whether Zeng Mu lived or died either. It was simply mealtime.
Watching him lie motionless on the bed, the man used a pliable rod twisted from straw to quietly hook the prison meal left at the food hatch and pull it over for himself.
For those two days, he ate very happily. He had not felt so full in a long time.
Zeng Mu knew nothing about this man except that he was dying. The single glimpse he had caught before falling asleep two days ago had told him the man had only a few days left-three at the shortest, a week at the longest. The abscesses and peeling skin on that hand were far beyond ordinary illness or injury. These were symptoms seen only in the dying, and Zeng Mu had witnessed them more than once during his previous battles with the Vikings.
Sure enough, shortly after he woke, the man's voice came from next door. "You're awake?"
The voice was faint and hollow, echoing through the cell walls like a ghost. It did not sound as though it came from a living person's mouth.
"I helped you eat all six meals you missed these past two days. They tasted wonderful. It's been so long-so very long-since I've eaten my fill..."
He could not see the man's face, but he could see the deathly pale hand