The old man lay on his tattered bed and stared at the roof of the thatched hut he’d called home for almost twenty-five years. The spatterings on the threadbare blanket that now covered him were evidence that a creature had taken up residence somewhere in the rafters of his dilapidated hut. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but he was too broken and weak to care.

He’d prayed every night to any god that might hear him for a quick and merciful death. He’d spent every day for more than twenty years barely existing. When he first arrived at the compound, he couldn’t understand what his captors were saying as they spoke in a language he didn’t recognize. But after meeting some of the other men who were also held against their will it became apparent, and his life quickly turned into a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

He’d been sentenced to life without parole in a camp that was specifically designed to imprison people who’d committed heinous crimes and escaped prosecution under the law. There were men here from all over the world, and they were all provided barely enough to keep them alive.

They were forced to work hard labor every day. And it wasn’t constructive labor. They weren’t building bridges or paving roads. It was anything that caused their muscles and lungs to ache. The men called it nonsense labor. They dug ditches and then would have to carry heavy boulders to fill them in. They would transport the dirt they’d dug for miles only to create mini-mountains that served no purpose. The same thing every day. Day in and day out. They were allowed one shower a week and were provided no entertainment. Nothing to read, nothing to watch, no music or instruments, no radio, and definitely no women.

They were given only enough food and water to sustain them, but they were always hungry and thirsty. If they became ill, medicine was provided. Their clothes and living conditions were deplorable, yet nothing that would cause their demise. The camp was created to ensure a miserable existence, much like a forgotten animal that barely survived at the end of a chain and lived at the mercy of a heartless owner. And it didn’t help that just beyond the electric fence, their captors lived in luxury.

He remembered once trying to goad another prisoner into bashing his head in with a shovel. But the man refused, explaining that the punishment for attempted suicide was starvation for both the intended victim, should he survive, and the accomplice. But not starvation as an end to life. They would be starved up until the brink of death and then brought back again.

It was then he realized his fate. The compound was specifically created for its inmates to endure a despondent life with no hope to die of old age. And someone had paid a lot of money to ensure that it happened. They were under constant surveillance. Their huts were ramshackle, but that didn’t mean they weren’t equipped with the latest electronic devices that monitored their every move. In other words, suicide was next to impossible.

Staring at the ceiling, he felt the splat of fecal matter as it hit his forehead. He was an old man, and his withered and shriveled body could’ve kept on going, but didn’t want to. Instead, he chose to work through the symptoms of what he thought was pneumonia. If his captors suspected his ill health, they’d give him medicine and he didn’t want medicine. He wanted death. He envied his friends who died from diseases. Once an illness was determined to be life-threatening, they would no longer receive medication, and their captors would let the disease run its course without medicine that could’ve eased their pain. He would’ve traded a slow agonizing death that might’ve taken up to a year rather than the almost twenty-five years he’d now endured. His breathing was labored, and he prayed that darkness would swallow him before he was expected at breakfast. He didn’t want a shot of penicillin. He wanted to die.

He closed his eyes, and his last coherent thoughts were of the day he sat down on the toilet in his jail cell and later woke up in a box. He didn’t know how much time had passed or where he was. He recognized the smell of wood and saw pinpoints of light that shone through holes that were drilled so he’d have air.

He’d beaten on that box and screamed until he didn’t have any voice left and his fists were bloodied. He remembered hearing movement and had to shield his eyes as the lid was pried open, the bright sun blinding him.

Once he adjusted to the light, he heard a voice and his pulse quickened.

“Hello, Van.” Seconds passed. “Or maybe I should say goodbye.”

Van turned his head toward the voice and saw eyes so penetrating, he gasped. He begged for his life, stammering a dozen ways to try and placate the person who’d had him imprisoned. He should’ve given up his preposterous plan to kidnap Christy and take her money. He should’ve heeded the warning the attorneys had passed on after their visit with Anthony Bear. He should’ve quit while he still had the chance. He should’ve disappeared and anonymously started over and worked his way back from ruin. But no. He had to be greedy. And that greed now mocked him as he lay in a handmade coffin, destined to be buried alive.

Barely able to collect his thoughts back then, Van had choked on his tears when something occurred to him. If the intention was to bury him alive why were there air holes in the box? He wasn’t sure what had shocked him more. The sudden realization that the plan couldn’t have been to bury him alive, or that the eyes that stared down at him weren’t the bottomless black eyes of a sadistic criminal—they were bright blue eyes that rivaled the sky. Eyes that as a child had begged for his love. Eyes that as a teenager had begged for his mercy. And eyes that as a woman saw him for the monster he truly was. He shrunk at the memory of the judgment in her gaze.

Now, more than twenty years later Van Chapman thought about the woman who’d sentenced him to a life without hope. A sentence he deserved. He took his last breath and before exhaling managed to whisper words that he'd never allowed to cross his lips. “I’m sorry, Christy.”