The floor under his hand is hard and cold. The air blowing out from the door, the center, it's warm and dry, and the floor is cold, and the leg of the bed is cold, metal and just the right shape that his fingers fit around it, gather it into a tight grip. "The prison. The most well appointed prison I've ever been kept in. Only Panem- but Panem was never a part of it."

There's his grip on the bed, it is here and under his hand, but that's not enough. His other hand tightens, loosens, moves from Firo's collar and onto his shoulder and Roland tries to focus on his face. His eyes. His own screams howl around his ears.

"These welts on my hand," he murmurs, looking at the spots where the stings from those creatures had, unbeknownst to Roland, started it all. "While I can remember they're there. Those are important, I think. But Panem. Panem. Is that where we are?"

Roland's eyes flicker over Firo's shoulder, back at the door, and fear slips onto his face, widens his eyes even as he forces them, for a second or two, back onto his friend's face again. "Panem. A prison, isn't it? A prison. How did we come here? No, that's not the question. How long? If I'm here, how long have I been here? Trace my steps, that's the way."