When he was left alone it felt as if the effects of the painkillers were only able to come through then. A crushing sadness stilled his hands and set the formed clay on top of the rest of it, which he'd wrapped up after pulling off enough for the last leg. It would take a couple hours to dry enough so that only a sharp blade could cut it gently, and while he still had to work on the head, Michael suddenly didn't feel like it. Didn't feel like much. He picked up the damp towel and cleaned his hands, covering the block of clay with it and gritting his teeth before beginning the careful shifting of his body. Putting his hands beside him, pressing down hard but keeping his shoulders squared, his jaw clenched, and his arms straight beside him. From this position he could almost feel the two largest bolts in his hips, but he ignored that thought and lifted himself up a bit higher. He felt so weak... How would physical therapy go? He had so rarely put weight on these legs, and if they ached so constantly now, how would he be able to handle what came during these possible years?

The door, which had been partially closed, opened and Michael quickly snapped his head up expecting to see a familiar pale-headed face. But it was the dark-haired older woman carrying a tray. She was actually from the cafeteria, and a kind woman---she always had a smile on her face, it seemed, and was never negative. It was eerie, really, but nice. She didn't have time to stay more than a minute, unfortunately, and she grinned widely as she set the tray she carried on he bare part of the table, grasping Michael's hand---which was one of the few parts of him that never pained him quite as badly as the rest of him. She left quickly, her job calling her back to the cafeteria, and Michael turned his gaze down. The food here wasn't bad at all, but couldn't compare to anything made at one's own home, under their own hand. This evening it was a roast beef sandwich with cheese, a small pile of mixed vegetables, half a pear, and a small bowl of yogurt. It was balanced, he knew, but always such a large amount. He couldn't eat much, though they seemed to feel that if they gave it to him, he'd be obligated to eat it.

Sighing, Michael picked up the sandwich and studied it. There was nothing wrong with it, but he'd gotten into the habit when his captors would give him a bowl of mix that didn't seem natural. Maybe he'd be happier once Sasha was back. Maybe he'd be happier if he told someone about what had happened. He glanced at the pager, but found no pressing reason to use it.