ASTORMISCOMINGASTORMISCOMINGASTORMISCOMING.

O rocked back and forth, keeping her eyes on the charcoal markings scrawled around her room. Words repeated themselves, written as a child would, covering one entire wall and extending beyond in tendrils composed of letters. They followed the storm.

Her arms hurt from being forced to constantly hug herself but the jacket was there for a reason. Her fingers itched to pull her hair, to tear it out, leaving the snowy strands on the floor. She could eat them at her leisure then. Wiggling her shoulder, she stretched the fabric. The jacket would be easy enough to escape if she wanted to but that had its own risks. If she was discovered the jacket would be exchanged for chains and irons instead.

Doctor Francis knew a storm was coming. She had told him many times. When the time came, he said he would help her and she believed him. He was good man even though he was white.

O leaped to her feet and shoved her face against the barred window. “I am a queen! Release me!”