The dark, damp, dank hole he sat in swallowed him whole. In the stink and heat, he craned his neck, looking in hope and fear his captors might return at any time. He could see his face had grown a beard, and his once shaved head now had hair long enough to consistently fall across his face.

With little surety, the light in here played tricks if it was even really light. He thought his hair all looked white. It may have been. He heard tales of traumatic events causing people’s hair to grow white. Maybe it was the stress of the unpredictable schedule, sitting in the dark for untold hours, ripped out, tortured by his captors, questioned, beaten, and thrown back in darkness. The hole made it impossible to track time. His only hint was the length of his hair and beard, at least a year, a year in thi...

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