Grautski was biding his time beneath the childhood safety of his covers when he felt a sudden coolness. As soon as the blanket was lifted, Kershaw Ferngard was dumped onto Grautski's prone form. Before they knew what was happening, both men were being knotted up like a bundle of rags inside the fuzzy prison-issue blanket.

"What you doing?" Ferngard demanded from inside the makeshift sack. "I drop my Porky Pig. Hey, get yo knee outta me eye," he snarled at Grautski.

"Shh," Remo whispered.

Beneath the 180-pound pile of wiggling Long Island Railroad Shooter, Todd Grautski tried to shove his hands out through the edge of the blanket. He encountered a tangle of thick knots. The intruder had used the four corners to tie them up inside the blanket.

Grautski suddenly heard a tiny ping of metal strike the concrete floor. "What was that?" he asked, panicked. "Was that an oven timer? I hate those."

"Shut up," Ferngard hissed from somewhere near Grautski's shins. He was straining to hear what was going on beyond the blanket. As he did so, the inmate had the abrupt sensation of rising into the air.

There was not a grunt from the man who was obviously carrying them. It was as if both men were no heavier than a duffel bag full of cotton laundry.

It took but a few steps for Kershaw Ferngard to know they'd gone too far to still be inside the solitary cell. By now they were gliding out through the open door to the small room.

"You really did break in," Ferngard said from the tangle of blanket, surprise and wonder in his muffled voice.

"Quiet," Remo replied in a whisper. "Try to act like a pair of smelly gym socks."

Ignoring the complaints that issued from the Collablaster, Kershaw Ferngard shifted inside the bundle. He jammed his fingers into one of the tangled knots. After a little jimmying, he managed to pry it open a few inches. He stuck one big eye up to the opening.