It would be the little one with the flute, he decided. Not the tall one with the scarf.
There would be a familiar wheezing, groaning noise and it would arrive and he would take him away to the stars. He would never return.
A sudden memory, a half-remembered book he’d read at school. Something about the ‘silent snow.’ The ending of it seemed strangely appropriate.
The warders with the keys were in the canteen, eating, unthinking.
Half an hour from now they would come back and find he had gone to a place where they could and dared not follow.