He had been in this cell for nearly a year as far as he could tell, with no outside contact . The guards refused to speak to him, and he had stopped talking to himself after around six months of captivity. The only voice he heard was a recording that would blast over a speaker asking questions. He was close to giving up and had been trying to figure out the best way to commit suicide. The cell was kept very warm, and his only clothing was a pair of boxer shorts and a tank styled undershirt. Not enough material to hang himself with. The food he received was such that he did not require any silverware. There was nothing sharp in his cell that he could cut himself on or with. Twice a week he was taken to shower, but no razors were available. He was watched at all times as well. Even the effort of thinking about it was futile, but he really had nothing else to do.

Once a week, he would be escorted to the barber to have his beard trimmed. He hated the beard, he had been clean shaven for his entire life. Even there, he had no chance to possible steal a razor or scissors. Whenever he was taken from his cell, he was injected with some kind of drug that made him drowsy and unable to think clearly. He knew they were also putting something in his food, to keep him under control.

There were no windows in his cell either, in fact he thought that he was actually being kept below ground in a sub basement or some place similar. The lights were dim, he had no sense of time other than the meals seemed to come at regular interval. He spent a lot of time sleeping, the only time he got any exercise was when a recorded voice was piped into his cell, telling him to do so many sit ups or push ups. At first he followed everything he was told, until he realized that no one was going to punish him for not listening to the voice.

He was continuing his fantasy of suicide when he heard a scratching noise. He sat on the bunk, trying to locate the source of the noise. It sounded like it was coming from inside the walls, which made no sense, there couldn’t be noise coming from concrete. It was louder under the bunk, back in the corner. Galton got down on his hands and knees next to the head of the bed. Something was definitely scraping or scratching at the wall underneath the bunk. Not knowing how thick the walls could be, he decided to wait and see if something was actually going to come through the wall or if his imagination was making him hallucinate.