She remembered only piecemeal that Muerte, the chief warder, leaned over her and slapped her cheeks lightly. He effortlessly picked up her bleeding body from the floor and carried it to the infirmary.

Each of his steps caused her body to wince in pain. Muerte gave them to the nursing staff and left them without a word. Sam looked after him with swollen eyes. A buxom Mexican washed her dirty body and provided Sam's smaller wounds. Sam closed her eyes gratefully when she finally got a painkiller injected.

After three days, by now she had made friends with the buxom Mexican, Rosa, the on-duty doctor, a pimply African American, so young that he had just finished his medical studies, entered the room. Rosa matically patted Sam's knee and said goodbye.

The doctor came to her bed with Sam's medical file. He pulled a chair next to Sam and opened the file.

He cleared his throat: "Um, they have a rib bruise, numerous bruises and abrasions, hm, hm, we had to pull a molar, make a cut on the back with 6 stitches." Not all that wild. "The injuries in the pubic area have worried us, we had to sew the vaginal wall and control the inflammation with antibiotics and they should not have intercourse for the next three weeks. "

Sam laughed mirthlessly. "It should not be me, Doc."

He nervously fiddled with Sam's medical record. "That's why we'll keep her at the infirmary for at least three weeks, maybe four."

"Three weeks should probably be enough." A rusty voice sounded from Sam's foot of the bed.

Sam looked up in fear. There stood the massive figure of the chief warder. Muerte. His shadow fell on Sam's face and she felt small and terribly vulnerable.

The doc hurriedly got up from his chair, nervously smoothing the folds of his white coat and leaving the room hastily.

Muerte still stood motionless, his arms crossed, looking at Sam. For a while, they gave themselves an intense look duel. Sam gave up, feeling uncomfortable at the sight of his irritating eyes. They were of a bright, watery blue and almost colorless.

He wore his skull shaved or was one of the men who had no hair at an early age. Sam guessed him in his early thirties. His face reminded her of the appearance of Greek athletes, with broad, angular jaws and narrow lips. He came to Sam at least six feet tall and terribly wide. This man darkened the sun.

"You fought well."

Hot anger rose hot in Sam. Muerte had stood by and watched the five men attack her like animals.

"Oh, did you like it, why did not you join in, or were you prevented?" she poisoned him.

Muerte sat casually on the chair on which the Doc had previously nervously slid around. Sam involuntarily flinched and almost fell out of bed, if Muerte had not grabbed her arm lightning fast.

"Slowly, Scherenlady, you were not particularly flirtatious with Miguel's brother." He looked at her appraisingly.

Anger rose on Sam's cheeks. Muerte stretched his legs relaxed and crossed his hands in his bull's neck. "Why did you mess him up like that?"

Sam pulled hard on her blanket and stuffed the sheet under her armpits. "Is this an interrogation or are you my personal confessor?"

Muerte grimaced at the corners of his mouth in a mocking grin. "Then it's not possible." He got up. Casually, he flicked a piece of chocolate into Sam's lap. The director has seconded me as your personal watcher as long as you're on this station, so you'd better try to escape. "

Sam glared at him uncontrollably. "As if I wanted to leave here, where I have so much fun."