Hathaway awakens some time later. He holds his wrist toward the light from the torch: a quarter past ten. Or a quarter to three; he can't quite read the hands and numbers. The smaller torch on the floor has gone out and the larger one hanging provides only a dim light now. James gives Lewis a squeeze.
"Sir? Sir?"
There is no response.
James lurches to his feet. It's his fault they are trapped in here, his responsibility to find a way to get out. He doesn't realize it, but his mind is becoming addled from the cold. The slowed flow of blood has decreased the oxygen available to his brain, and he readily makes illogical conclusions about their situation.
He stares at the vent on the far wall of their cell. There must be a way to get that off. If only he can get the grating off, there might be a way out behind it. He totters over to it, his balance not quite what it should be. He examines the vent and can see its grating is attached to the wall with only a few screws. One edge isn't even tight against the wall.
He pries at it with his fingers, lacking anything else better suited for the job. It feels like it might be coming loose. He digs more energetically, paws at the edges, prying with his nails and trying to force his fingertips behind the metal flange. It seems as though the sharp edge is cutting into his fingertips, but he doesn't feel any pain. Getting the grating off the vent is the most important thing right now. He's certain he's pulled it and increased the gap a bit. It's so close to coming off, just a little more work will let him get his hand into the gap. If he can only get a bit more space between the grating and the wall, force it out a little further . . .
But the vent won't budge, and when he peers at it closely, he can see the grating hasn't moved at all. All of his efforts have been pointless. His fingers and nails are torn, but he notes with detached interest that they're not in the least bloody. He concludes he has done them no real damage, only the top layer of skin is missing. He doesn't see that the vent is but a couple of inches deep. Even if he had gotten the grating off, nothing would have been gained by their access to the narrow ducting behind it.
And it doesn't occur to him that his fingers don't bleed because there's no longer enough blood in his extremities to do so.
He makes one more try at the vent, but this time his heart is not in the work and he gives up after a few minutes. He stumbles back to where Lewis is lying on the floor and curls again around the older man, fitting his knees behind Lewis's legs and pressing his chest against Lewis's back, trying to create warmth where none exists.
Lewis stirs. "James?"
"Sir?"
"I'm sorry if I made it sound like this is your fault."
"I'm sorry, too, Sir. It is my fault."
Lewis grunts. "Well, even if it is, that doesn't help us now." He's quiet a moment. "D'you think we'll be found in time?"
James's exhalation sounds more like a sob. "We have to think that, Sir. Anything else is self-defeating."
Lewis is silent for several minutes. "James, if I don't get another chance to tell you, thanks for being my sergeant."
"Sir, . . . don't."
"No, I want to say this. I know how it feels when you don't have time to say everything you should. And I need to tell you that I've learned a lot from you. I know I haven't always been easy to work with, but it's because you push me, and that's good. I hope the ways I've challenged you have helped you develop, too. I . . ." he swallows. "I love you, James, you're like a son to me." He tries to stop his jaw from quivering. "And if we get out of this, I didn't say that. Okay?"
"Thank you, Sir." Hathaway doesn't know what else to say.
Lewis wishes he could tell Hobson something along the same lines. He of all people should know that rarely does a person know his own time of death so that all the loose ends can be tied up. Waiting for the right moment can mean waiting too long.
They shiver in unison for a while. After a very long time, Hathaway says the one thing that occupies his mind.
"I seriously have to pee."
Lewis snorts. "Yeah, I felt that, too. Must be the cold."
"No, I mean, I think if I try to move at all I'm going to wet myself. And you." His stifled voice reveals his shame.
"Hathaway, it's okay, man. Anyway, I already have done. I guess I was sleeping and couldn't stop meself. Go ahead if you need to."
Hathaway's embarrassment is not as strong as his body's need, and he sighs with relief as he releases control. The urine feels hot at first, almost burning as it soaks through both men's trousers. But the warmth it provides doesn't last long.