She doesn’t call it sabotage or freedom, she calls it work, small victories that make control stutter for a moment.

The cigarette gives him a job, inhale, hold, exhale, until he can stand up and move again.

A bird tests its voice, a forgotten plant grows a new leaf, and that’s enough to make them mutter “fine” and keep moving.

He holds his hand on the crib’s edge, listening to the city crackle outside, repeating a promise he isn’t sure the night will honor.

He counts five, seven, five, and tries to trap a bright afternoon on paper while his daughter turns the playground into a kingdom.