"I was working at a restaurant as a server. I had no money. I was broke as hell," Nicky said.
The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other like he was afraid that if he stopped speaking, he would never start again. His voice was still trembling, still cracked at the edges, but there was something else creeping in now—a flicker of memory, of a time before this cold gray room and this smiling man.
"At that restaurant, we had a regular who came all the time."
He paused, swallowing hard. His throat felt dry, raw, scraped clean by the sheer force of his terror. But he pushed forward, because stopping meant silence, and silence meant waiting, and waiting meant wondering if this would be his last conversation.
"A regular?" Nicholas asked.
His voice was calm, curious. He leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms loosely, his red hair catching the harsh fluorescent light.
