He sits and waits in the darkness. This moment was bound to come—he has been destined for it all his life—but still it seems impossible it is happening. Destiny, fate, the inevitable: No matter how much you grasp it, it never really settles in, never finds its way into your bones until what was foreseen finally comes.

Maybe he could have avoided what is coming, and now he plays a dangerous game, running through all the possibilities in his head: What if he had turned left instead of right, climbed down instead of up? Would he still be here in this room, waiting in the darkness?

He stands and paces, back and forth, from one end of the room to the other. He has always done this when he is nervous. He learned it from his father, who learned it from his father before him. Walking in circles, thinking in circles, what if he had listened, what if he had tried?

He could dig a tunnel and escape. He could clench his fists and bore a hole in the ceiling. He is strong enough; that is why they have brought him here. But where would that take him? Deeper underground, higher towards the sky, none of it would matter. Every escape would lead to another place to wait.