Michaels' eyes darted from bed to sink to bars to the sleeping form sucre and back again. By his third week in Fox River, he could not sleep at night. His mind constantly processing more details, more possibilities, more plans. He walked back and forth, and suddenly the cell seemed too small. He stopped and slipped to the floor. Lincoln can't die… Lincoln can't dielinconcantdielincolncantdie… he could not stop thinking. His breathing became laboured. He heard all the noises…sleeping inmates snoring shuffling…guards walking…. there was never any silence…it was never complete silent at night…and his mind processed all the sounds at once…. And he continued thinking…."Lincoln can't die…." He didn't notice he was crying until he could taste the salty tears mixing with the blood he drew with his teeth. His foot still hurt… he refused to take the painkillers Sarah offered. He didn't want to numb his senses….and he sometimes wished she had something so strong…he wouldn't even begin to think …or feel. His arm hurt now…the cut was so deep it became difficult to shower and to dress. His head was throbbing too…an inmate sneezed and Michael snapped. He remembered hearing screaming…. wondering why it was so loud… and realizing it was his own…. and then there was a stray jacked…. and nothing more.