Page 108 of Operation: Defiance

Glasses are stacked on a shelf to my left. Two sizes. Small and large.

I stare at them, waiting for a correction. For barked orders or hands touching the exact wrong spot on my neck or wrist or thumb.

Nothing happens, and eventually, I risk reaching for one.

Even the small glass is heavier than I expect. My grip isn’t perfect. My thumb doesn’t want to get with the program. But I don’t drop it.

The surge of relief borders on ridiculous.

I set the glass in the sink under the faucet. Turning the handle is harder. My fingers might work, but they’re still weak.

Water bursts out, louder than I expect, and my entire body braces until I remind it no one’s watching.

When the glass is half full, I shut the faucet off and just…stare at the water.

It’s real. More importantly, it’s mine. Because I wanted it.

I have to use both hands to bring the glass to my chapped lips. The first sip is barely enough to wet my tongue. But the second…

My eyes sting. Swallowing hurts more than I’d like. Not damage. Disuse, I think. My stomach clenches, then eases when I tell it to.

The urge to finish it all is stronger than I expect, but I stop myself after the fourth sip. I can have more whenever I want.

I set the glass down on the counter, my movements so slow, it would be comical if I didn’t ache everywhere.

My hands are shaking harder now. This is more effort than I’ve expended at once since I got out. But the fact that I did something I wasn’t allowed to do for…

I can’t put a number on it. Days. Weeks. Long enough to forget I could.

I lean my hip against the counter and let the realization catch up to me.

I wanted water. I got it.

My teeth still feel wrong, coated in the memory of chemically sweet nutrient sludge and too many days without brushing.

Asher stocked this place with all the basics. Food. Clothes. Soap. There must be a toothbrush in the bathroom somewhere.

Another want.

Another choice.

My legs protest when I push off the counter, but they hold. Each step toward the bathroom is a quiet, stubborn declaration.

Mine.

I close the bathroom door halfway. I need to be able to see the bed. And Asher. But I don’t want to wake him. He finally looks…relaxed.

The sink is small. White porcelain, a faint chip on the left edge. I refuse to acknowledge the mirror above it. I’m too afraid of what I’ll see.

The one thing I want most of all—a toothbrush, wrapped in plastic—is sitting in a cup on the counter. A travel size tube of toothpaste is next to it.

I brace my hip against the counter and pick up the toothbrush, using my thumb and forefinger like tweezers. The plastic crackles when I tear the wrapper, the sound louder than it should be.

The brush is light. Easy enough to hold if I choke up on the handle.

The toothpaste is harder. The cap is too small. I have to pin the tube against the counter with my palm and use the heel of my other hand to twist. On the second try, it gives.

By the time I get a crooked line of paste on the brush, I’m breathless and a little dizzy from the effort. From the simple, absurd fact that I’m doing this at all.