Morning did not come as fast as she wanted.
It crept in slow and gray through the cracks in boarded windows, light dull and cold, touching the room without warmth, revealing what night had tried to hide. The fire had burned low, reduced to embers that barely glowed, the smell of smoke and sweat and something sour clinging to the walls.
Iyisha had not slept.
Not even when her body begged for it.
The men who had raped the woman stayed.
They sat near the door through the night, rifles across their knees, boots stretched toward the fire, talking in low voices that never fully dropped into silence.
Sometimes they laughed softly. Sometimes one of them stood and paced.
Iyisha stayed curled inside the crate, knees drawn in as far as the metal allowed. Her muscles burned from holding herself still.
Every time her eyes fluttered closed, her body snapped them open again, panic jerking her awake before sleep could take her under.
If she slept, she would lose time.
