Page 34 of The Fix
Cyrus had worked the metal bedpost free.
It hadn’t been too hard. The challenge was accomplishing it without making it obvious to the man outside this room, watching him on camera.
He doubted the guy was staring too hard, though.
He probably used it to make sure Cyrus wasn’t trying to pick the lock or break the window or something. He hoped anyway.
The piece of metal headboard had been worked free of the piece beneath it, but Cyrus didn’t remove it yet. His best weapon was going to be the element of surprise. Anyone trying to trick a bad guy nose picker knew that.
Cyrus had also been sneaking food that the man brought under the mattress. When the time was right, Cyrus was going to put the handful of dried-up fries, half a flattened hamburger bun, and smashed chocolate bar into his pockets or stuff them in his pants.
That way he wouldn’t starve if he made it out of this room and into the forest.
At least not right away.
Maybe he could even distract a bear by throwing half a chocolate bar at him.
Cyrus would like to take a bottle of water, but he wasn’t sure he could stuff that under his clothes without the man noticing right away, and he couldn’t hold it because he’d need both his hands to swing the metal bedpost. So instead, he’d drink as much as he could before it was time.
Mr. Abdullah had taught him about thinking ahead .
He’d told Cyrus that he should always be two to three moves in front of his opponent.
He’d also taught Cyrus that he should know the most obvious moves an opponent might make.
So, Cyrus considered all of that. He went over his plan in his head, adjusting it until it seemed right.
Timing is everything, Mr. Abdullah had told him.
To lose patience is to lose the battle. A man named Gandhi said that, and Mr. Abdullah said Gandhi was right.
Cyrus trusted Mr. Abdullah because he won every chess game he played, not just against Cyrus, but against all the other people in the park, even the businessmen who stopped to play with the old man, thinking they were smarter and better than him. None of them were.
The door opened, startling Cyrus, who was so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard the man approaching from the other side.
Stay alert. Another Mr. Abdullah lesson.
He reminded him of that when Cyrus grew bored of waiting for Mr. Abdullah’s move and started staring at something going on in the park rather than watching the board.
The man came in with a bag of food and dropped it near the door. He picked up the other ones and quickly tossed them out of the room before looking back at Cyrus. “They’ll be here sooner than we thought,” the man said. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
They. The bad men. They’d be there tomorrow afternoon. Timing was everything, but sometimes timing wasn’t up to you. “When?” Cyrus asked.
“Like I said, tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s not very specific.”
“I’ll worry about specifics.”
“Don’t I get a last meal?”
“What the hell are you talking about, kid?”
“You know, before a prisoner gets zapped in the electric chair, they give him a last meal. Anything he wants.”
He eyed Cyrus, an amused smile tilting his thin lips. “They don’t use the electric chair no more. Cruel and unusual.” The man scratched his neck. “But I see your point, little man. Sure. You can have a last meal. What do you want?”
“Breakfast. Pancakes and bacon with plenty of syrup. Whipped cream too.”
The man raised a brow. “You like pancakes, huh? Yeah, that’s what I’d choose as a last meal myself, come to think of it.” He regarded Cyrus. “Okay, sure. You haven’t given me too much trouble and you’ve got some ... challenging times ahead, kid.”
“Can I have it in the morning? Breakfast is best in the morning.”
“You’re not wrong there.” He let out a little snort. “You’re an interesting kid, you know that? Okay then, pancakes in the morning it is. Now get some sleep.”
Cyrus sat back against the wall, his heart speeding. He’d already napped today, and he wasn’t tired. But he nodded. He’d stay up tonight and go over his plan. He’d perfect it as much as possible. Every move.
Until it was time.