He felt life slipping away slowly, chased out of his body by the constant shivers that racked him. He had kept track of the first five days through the arrival of his antibiotics three times a day together with a plastic mug of cold water. The sliver of light appeared regularly, helping him to keep focused, to note the passage of time. He was given his usual mug of hot tea and bowl of porridge every second day which he learned to eat morsel by morsel, licking the bowl clean before feeling his way over to the door and the slot. His arm throbbed too much to permit any exercises, so he contended himself with stamping his feet or crouching on his knees to give them an occasional break. At times the pain threatened to drive him over the edge.

Focus, Almeida. Ignore it. Push it away, push harder. It's already receding. Push it further. You're doing great.

During the fourth day he developed a slight cough which worsened rapidly. His whole body shook as he leaned forward; it's shaking joining the constant shivering. He learned to lay his injured arm on the floor whenever a coughing fit took him to prevent it jerking. In desperation he attempted to steady his breathing, concentrating on each icy breath as it entered his lungs, hoping to ease his sore throat and prevent more coughing.

The sliver of light appeared under his door. He blinked, forcing his lungs to move at the same pace. They were bringing him food. Slowly he rose from where he had crouched on his knees and moved towards the slot, watching it open. Shaking hands lifted his mug, laying it back an instant before a coughing fit shook him.

Steady, Almeida. You laid that tea back too slowly. You almost lost the lot.

He picked it up again, pouring the scalding liquid down his throat. Replacing the mug he took his bowl and ate it slowly, pausing to cough several times. What day could it be? They had brought him food three times now, every second day, so that made it day six. He had another one to survive. Yet another coughing fit shook him. He laid the bowl down, leaning forward to protect stomach muscles that were sore by now. Too late, he felt his stomach heave, filling his mouth with food. Pressing his eyes shut he forced himself to swallow it back down. Again his stomach heaved, emptying its meager contents.

Tony forced himself to wait a few minutes before attempting to eat the remainder of the now cold porridge in his bowl. He HAD to keep something down. The slot opened and his mug was removed. He took another small mouthful of porridge. Again his stomach heaved. It was no good; he needed to wait a few minutes before resuming his meal. The slot opened again, and an irritated face peered in.

'Prisoner, the bowl!'

'Just give me a few minutes,' Tony rasped, his voice sounding strange after not having spoken for six days.

'Prisoner, I am warning you. The bowl,' repeated the guard, tapping on the slot.

Tony turned his back to the light, noting his bowl remained half full. He wasn't going to waste that. Slowly he took another mouthful, warming it before swallowing it down. He heard the door opening.

'Prisoner, face the wall!' He gazed at them bewildered, aware guards never entered the cell or even spoke to a prisoner undergoing a spell in solitary. One guard grabbed him by his good arm, pulling him to his feet and shoving him into the wall. Moments later they exited the cell, slamming his door closed. The slot opened. 'Convict Almeida, there will be consequences to your disobedience.' The slot slammed shut. Tony moved towards the light, searching for his bowl. He couldn't see it anywhere on the floor. Kneeling down he pulled his hands over every inch of the floor, searching in desperation. The floor was empty, not only was his bowl nowhere to be found, the few crusts of bread he had saved were gone too. Desperation kept him searching far longer than the rational part of his brain told him he should.

He sank onto the icy floor, moaning aloud.

'On your feet, private. On the double. Why the hell am I always having to speak to you? Get up!'

He forced himself to move, Will's voice echoing through his head, as annoying in memory as it had been in real life. "You, Almeida, wouldn't have a hope surviving capture. Not a hope! You've got to force yourself to focus on the situation, stop fighting useless battles, wait till you get out for that. Focus on survival. Step forward, Almeida! We're going to repeat this exercise! I'm going to lock you back in that shed, and if I hear a single sound from you, you'll stay there the rest of the day. Settle down and concentrate on staying alive IN SILENCE." God, how he had hated his sergeant. Yet he knew Wills would have survived in this hole. Well, he would too!

Two days later he received only a mug of tea and some bread. He drank the tea as fast as he could, replacing his mug in the slot and snatching his bread. Why did they feed him now? It was the eighth day; he was supposed to have been released yesterday. He pressed the bread into his fist, not daring to lay it down while the sliver of light remained under the door.

His head spun, he coughed all the time, he began to struggle with each breath. Time passed without his release. Where were they? They HAD to let him out today! He stumbled to the door, banging on it with his fist, unable to yell. Silence greeted him when he gave up, silence surrounded by complete darkness. The silence of the grave, he thought.

No, not here. Not like this.

When they finally released him, on the ninth day, he had to be dragged along the corridor as well as the stairs, unable to walk. He heard his guards discussing his condition, struggling to comprehend their words. Steel doors were unlocked, he was dragged through. He felt hands raise him; lay him on a soft bed. His clothes were removed; something cold was pressed against his chest. Conversation floated all around him as he squeezed his eyes shut.

'Almeida, open your eyes.' He lay where he was, ignoring them all. 'Move your hand for me.' Slowly he moved his hand, still clenched in a fist. 'That's good. Open your hand for me.' Fingers pried his fist open, removing the half slice of bread squashed inside it.

No, that's mine!

Startling them all, he opened his eyes, grabbing the bread out of the doctor's hand.

'Almeida, you don't need that anymore!' The doctor attempted to remove it but he closed his fist around it tighter than before. 'Alright, you can keep it. Relax.' He gave Tony a needle, and despite himself he found himself falling asleep. They would take his bread now. He forced his fist under his back.

The following days passed in an incomprehensible whirl. Occasionally he forced himself awake, checking he still had the bread, before drifting off.

'How do you feel today, Almeida?' inquired the doctor, smiling down at him. Tony blinked, registering his surroundings for the first time since his arrival. He lay wrapped under a white blanket with an IV tube in one arm.

'Ok, I guess,' he whispered.

'You've still got that piece of stale bread. Take a good look at it, and then I'll get you some fresh bread if you'll let me throw this away.'

He gazed in silence at the rock hard bread he still held, feeling his cheeks burn. Wordless, he handed it to the doctor. 'You're a survivor, if ever I saw one,' the doctor remarked, handing him a slice of fresh bread. 'Try to eat a little. You can also have some soup now.' He raised the bed, propping Tony up.

'How long have I been here?' Tony asked, trying to speak clearly.

'A week. You had bronchitis and pneumonia in both lungs. You even scared the warden. Between you and me, I had a few things to say to him. I handed him a medical form stating that any further time in the hole would kill you – it was an official warning! Oh, and Almeida...' he turned, laying a plate of steaming soup down. 'Hurry up with your lunch. You've got a whole pile of letters waiting for you.'

'For me?' Tony whispered, narrowing his eyes slightly.

'Yes, I'll bring them to you after lunch.' His hand shook with excitement as he held the first letter he had received since his arrest. The first one was from his sister Rita, written the day after his arrest. He wandered who had kept it for so long. It seemed everyone else had written too, his other sisters Jane, Anna and Maria, and his brothers Marco, Bobby and Joey. His parents had written several letters each. All expressed deep love and concern for him, assuring him they would fight to get him released, urging him to take care of himself until that time. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, grateful for being granted a couple of hours privacy by the doctor. With trembling hands he reached for the final envelope, recognizing the handwriting.

What does she think of me? She understands EXACTLY what I risked, the way the others don't.

Michelle wrote that she was lonely in the large house, hating the silence that greeted her whenever she returned. Someone new had taken over his old position. He noticed she didn't mention the workplace or his replacement's name, aware they would be censored before he could read them anyway. She had returned to Division, glad to avoid seeing the people at CTU everyday. Her job was interesting, necessitating long hours in the office, which was fine at the moment as she was unable to face going out by herself anyway. Tears filled his eyes as he gazed at the letter, reading it again to himself, slower.

'Almeida, have something to drink,' the doctor told him as he gazed at the same letter an hour later. Tony reluctantly laid it aside, sitting up to sip a little orange juice. It tasted fresh; he drained the entire glass and laid it down with a sigh. He hadn't been given any juice since his arrest. His eyes returned to the letter. There was nothing he could do anymore, he just had to hope. His best friend was hurting, and he had caused her grief.

Someone approached his bed hesitantly. Tony looked up, surprised to see Sanchez watching him, wearing a bandage round an arm. 'Hey, amigo. It's good to see you again. The whole block is talking about you. I brought you something.' He handed Tony a small white square envelope. Tony's fingers shook as he opened it, pulling out Michelle's photo. It was in perfect condition, just as he had left it.

Her face smiled out at him, her hair spread around it, a loose curl hanging over her ear. His breath caught in his throat. He hadn't held the picture for a month now, and well, her smile was even brighter than he remembered. The smile that had been directed at him as he watched her passport photo being taken. He remembered pulling a funny face, then rolling his eyes to get her to laugh just as the picture had been taken.

'Oh Tony,' she'd cried, exasperated. 'This picture is supposed to be sent to Division with my file. I can't send that.'

'Sure you can,' he'd replied. 'You look fantastic.'

'Thanks honey, but they want an official photo. This one looks too much like I had it taken after a trip to the beach! I'll have to get another one taken. Would you wait outside!' She had given him a firm push, and he had left the booth, carrying the set of her smiling ones with him, placing that one in his wallet while he waited.

Will I ever see you smile at me again, sweetheart? Can you understand what I felt, seeing that bastard with a knife to your face, hearing him ordered to take out one of your eyes? Do you think I could have watched that?

Honey, I knew I would never see CTU again as I took Saunder's daughter out. I guessed they would prosecute me, even send me to prison, I just didn't think it would be for so long. I'd do the same again, Michelle, even after the last few months, coz there's NO WAY I could live with myself if anything happened to you. Now I sit around all day, wasting time, dreaming of seeing you again. I love you so much.

The doctor kept him in medical for another three days. Tony was grateful, enjoying the comfort and the quiet. The days were filled with rest, and the doctor usually came to talk to him a little in the afternoons. He took the photo of Michelle carefully from beside Tony, looking at it. 'Your wife?' He nodded. 'She's lovely.' He nodded again.

Once he was a little stronger and could spend a few hours awake, the doctor carried in his TV. 'I thought you might want to watch it a bit, Almeida,' he said, and Tony watched it all night, drinking in every word. He hadn't even seen a TV since his arrest, let alone been allowed to watch anything. With all the problems he had faced he hadn't even realized how much he had missed sitting on his couch, watching something. The first program showed a group of teenagers having a party on the beach. His breath caught in his throat. The water looked SO blue. He listened for the sound of the waves, filled with an overwhelming desire to walk on a real beach. The next program was one Michelle would have appreciated and he would have to have been coerced into watching with her, a romantic movie of a couple, terminating in a wedding. He watched it silently, rubbing hot eyes. A show followed these movies – a man with a guitar sang on a stage. Tony's fingers moved involuntarily. When would he ever get to hold his guitar again? Indeed, he hadn't heard any music since his arrest. The full meaning of his incarceration hit him. It meant a lot more than just sitting in a cell.

He was too exhausted to eat breakfast the following morning, waking up with the remote in his hand and the TV still on. The doctor chided him mildly, insisting he eat something and promising he would bring the TV back that night, provided he switched it off around midnight. Tony ate a little and slept till lunchtime. He felt happier than at any previous time since his arrest.

'You awake, Almeida?' inquired the doctor, pulling a chair up to his bed. Tony opened his eyes and nodded.

'Yes, Dr Lahti.' He gazed at the doctor, wandering what was coming.

'Almeida, you came a lot closer to death than you seem to realize. There's a limit to how much abuse your body can sustain,' Dr. Lahti began. 'Now it's time for you to settle down, accept your imprisonment and live with it. Ending up here all the time isn't going to reduce your sentence, believe me. Prison officials don't care whether you spend your time reading in your cell, or whether you spend it in isolation. You're not punishing anyone except yourself. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

Tony gazed back at him, reading concern in his expression. He sighed. 'Yeah,' he agreed reluctantly. 'You're saying I should settle down to live like a zombie!' He saw the doctor frown and shake his head. 'No wait,' he continued, holding up a finger. 'You're advising me to reduce my stress levels, take up a hobby, maybe go for a walk in the evenings!'

Dr. Lahti shook his head exasperated. 'You know exactly what I'm saying, Almeida! You've had a tough start, but it's over now. I stuck my neck out for you with that form yesterday.'

Tony felt a mild pricking in his conscience for the first time since his arrival. 'You're not saying you'll get fired?' he asked.

'I hope not. Anyway, I can't watch them kill people, it's just wrong! Get some rest now, Almeida.' Tony watched him walk to the other end of the ward and check on a few patients.

Three days later he was cleared by the doctor and returned to his cell. He left medical reluctantly, sensing he would need to spend a little time there every so often for a break. It was the closest he would come to normal life again.

'Let's go, convict!' ordered a guard he hadn't seen yet. 'You know the drill. Face the wall; place your hands behind your back.' Tony faced a barred window, looking onto the gates at the front of the building, as the guard grabbed one of his wrists.

It would be impossible to climb that gate. It's too high, there's too many guards. Indeed all the walls are too high, and there's two sets of them, patrolled by dogs, AND watched by guards from towers. No, you couldn't climb anything to get out. You'd have to WALK out through the gate, like a guard.

Almeida, what are you thinking? These people are prepared, you'd never make it! And WHERE would you go, even if you could get out? You'd be hunted from one end of the country to the other, and in case you haven't noticed, you're not exactly in top condition, right now! Damn it, that TV sure makes it hard to be stuck in here.

'I said move, convict' snapped the guard. Tony shook his head to clear it, and turned to face the door, stopping to thank the doctor for saving him. There was a lot more he wanted to thank him for, but it was impossible with the guards watching him. The doctor nodded.

'You're welcome, Almeida.'

One of the guards gave him a slight push to get him moving. The other guard held the door open and he followed him out, fixing his eyes straight ahead. They walked towards the steel doors, stopping him while they were opened, marching him across the courtyard, deeper into the prison, further from the gates.

Will you quit thinking about the gates!

The steel doors to his block were opened and he followed the guards inside, taking a last look at the sky. It was bright blue, cloudless, calling him outdoors. The kind of day he would be tempted to take sick leave, back when he first started at CTU. He groaned inside. One month without outdoor privileges, he'd spent three weeks in the hole and in medical, which left just over a week stuck indoors. Raising his head higher he followed the guard along the floor, stopping at his cell. A silence greeted his arrival. Once again every prisoner on the block moved to their bars, watching him being returned. He marched to the back of his cell, faced the wall and waited till his handcuffs were removed. Once the guards had left he settled in his familiar corner, staring at the bars. He had his photo back. Now he would have to find another hiding spot and keep it safe. Tonight he would fall asleep to her smile.