Here’s a short story from the archives, recently re-edited.
I leaned against the dirty grey wall of the holding cell, sitting, my feet stretched out in front of me on the floor. It was a square room with benches attached to the wall, all occupied by sleeping men. The floor sloped down to a central drain. The cell was made for drunks, but they weren’t using it for that now. I heard commotion in the hallway. The cell door opened with a clank, a large officer shoving a small man in. He looked back at the officer, hunching his shoulders as if he was trying to shake off a fly.
“You won’t win,” the man said. The officer laughed and turned to leave. He closed the heavy metal door and locked it.
The man looked for somebody awake. I tried to avoid eye contact. Too late, we connected. He made his way over, sitting on the floor next to…
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