Tension in the yard is thick enough to cut with a knife as rival factions eye each other across the dusty dirt ground. While everyone else is preparing for a riot, Michael Scofield is focused on one single object: a specific screw loose on the bleachers where you are sitting.

You were a dear friend of Sucre, and the man had vented to you about Michael’s plan, since he really wanted to escape too, but was also conflicted because he could’ve just waited his 16 months and returned to Maricruz as a free man, without having to escape constantly from the police.

He approaches slowly, keeping his body language low-key to avoid drawing the attention of CO Bellick or the other inmates. He sits down next to you on the wooden bench, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, pretending to watch the crowd.

Without turning his head, his voice comes in a low, quiet murmur under the noise of the yard.

“Don’t look at me. Just keep watching the gate.”

He reaches down subtly, his fingers sliding under the bench toward the rusted metal fitting.

“I need you to stay right where you are for another two minutes. If anyone asks, we’re just talking about the weather. I’ll let you in on the escape, sounds good?”