The Methuselah Project by Rick Barry

neighbor about elderly Miss Hawkins. “Nothing. Forget it.”
    But Burgess didn’t forget it. Occasionally Roger caught his neighbor casting sideways glances at him.
    He’s wondering if I’m coming unhinged. Who’s to say I’m not?
    Maybe if he yielded to Miss Hawkins’s directive, she would go away and leave him alone.
Okay, God, don’t let me go off my rocker. In memory of Old Lady Hawkins, I’m asking You to keep me in my right mind, no matter what Blomberg does. And if there’s a way out of here—any way at all
—
I’d like You to point it out, because I’m coming up empty. I guess that’s everything. This is Roger Greene, out.
    After the prayer, Roger lay on his cot, staring upward. He craved a glimpse of azure sky, of clouds, of luxurious sunshine—everything he relished when airborne. Instead, gray concrete and ash-colored bricks blocked his vision. “They could’ve at least given us a window. Even a window with bars would be better than none at all. Don’t they realize it’s torture for pilots not to see the sky?”
    “Try not to think about it, Rog,” Jamison said. “Instead of dwelling on everything you want to do but can’t, do what I do. Be free in your brain. Think about cities, parks, restaurants, and other places you’ve visited, and then try to recall every minuscule detail. Blomberg can lock our bodies behind bars, but he can’t lock up our imaginations.”
    Be free in my brain?
    Roger lay down and buried his face in his pillow. Within a few moments, he was back at Station 156 in Debden, sitting in the cockpit of his P-47. Step by step, he mentally closed the canopy, fired up the engine, taxied away from the hardstand and out to the runway. He could imagine the increasing vibration of the airframe and the roar of the engine as the aircraft picked up speed. Free as an eagle, he lifted from the tarmac, raised his landing gear, and soared above the English countryside.
No doubt about it, I was born to fly …
    When Roger opened his eyes, he realized he’d drifted off to sleep. Only one of the three light bulbs in the chamber glowed, dimming the light but not extinguishing it. His six companions slept. Someone breathed heavily, although not quite snoring. It must be nighttime.
    Faint and distant, muffled by the brick walls, Roger heard something: a drawn-out, wailing sound. He quickly guessed what the siren must mean. As if in confirmation, another distant noise steadily grew into a distinct droning. Aircraft. Lots of them.
    “Hey, you guys, wake up. I think it’s an air raid!”
    Roger’s words performed magic. Each of his companions rolled over and cocked an ear.
    Sedgewick bolted upright. “Night bombers! That’s the RAF about to give Adolf another kick in the rear.”
    “Go get ’em, lads,” Lambright shouted toward the ceiling. “Teach Jerry a lesson for us!”
    The siren also roused the guards. Through the metal door, guttural shouts sounded, followed by the rapid clomping of jackbooted feet pounding along the corridor. The single lightbulb winked out.
    Burgess’s voice cut through the darkness. “It’s a blackout. They’ve cut the juice to all the lights.”
    “This would’ve been the perfect time for an escape hole,” Roger said. “Right when all the outside lights are off and the guards are scampering away to cower in a bomb shelter.”
    Even as he finished his sentence, the thunder of an aerial bombardment reverberated in the chamber. He lay motionless on his canvas cot, where even from a distance he could feel the vibrations as tons of high explosives ravaged whatever target lay beneath them. The concussions were marching closer, closer …
    Above the din of explosions, Roger heard Burgess rattling the door of his cell and shouting. “Blomberg! Kossler! You idiots! Unlock the doors before we’re blown to bits!”
    Although Roger couldn’t see them in the darkness, he heard the other prisoners following Burgess’s example. The inky blackness echoed with a