The cockroach that woke up a man stood up for the first time inspecting his new naked trembling form in the half-dark room, the light bulb buzzing above him like a trapped fly. His limbs shook with effort, his knees bending wrong at first, then right, then wrong again. He tried a sound from his mouth.

“...Hel...hello.” The word scraped out of his throat like a hiss.

He looked around. The mirror showed a predators face, slick with sweat, and an intimidating physique.

“Good... morn... fine,” he said, repeating words he’d overheard through walls and vents. Each syllable clumsy, unsure. His mouth twisted into what he thought was a smile—too wide, too toothy. He jabbed a thumb at his chest, proud of the effort.

“Man,” he croaked. “Good man. Fine man.” Then, mimicking a gesture he’d observed the men outside make, he tried tipping an imaginary hat—almost toppling over in the process. Somewhere deep inside, the instincts of a roach roared. Observe. Adapt. Survive.