In the contraband drawer are fourteen objects, six of them frisked off and the rest given dumbly over in return for rancid blankets. These transactions occur with sullen guards as witness.
Upstairs the dorm is damp, with three stained mattresses at random on the gritty floor. The room stinks of unwashed things crammed careless into rotten vinyl bags. The windows grimed obscure the crust of pigeon shit on ledges. She has on her only what can safely be hidden or carried, and sleeps with her sack as a pillow.
Three women share her double bed. Each of them has nightmares, and one rolls toward her under the pretence of dreamlike groping, sliding a thick hand up her thin thigh. She grabs the wrist and in the dark can sense a yeasty smile. She inches closer to another sleeper, pining for the comfort of her blade.
By cresting dawn all inmates rise and get in line, groggy for coffee and corn flakes. Some sell their vouchers for cigarettes. She hasn’t eaten since Thursday, and wishes she had some to trade. They chew in silence, pretending not to listen for each others’ hunger. Faces low above their bowls, theirs is the furtive behaviour of animals unsure whether next they’ll bite or be bitten.
A bell’s disruption reminds them they have grudges of senseless wandering to bear, and they drag these leaden to the thick steel door. It swings outward and the guard charts the number of escapees to ensure none linger in the warm.
In the cold rain these bundles and parcels of women collect shabby garments about them and draw dirty hoods over haunted faces. Ejected from the hatch of suspect haven, they are a dim confetti of hapless misdirection. Some of them shoe alleyways where doubtless dealers skulk them. Some band with others and make hunted haste, or are borne with them feckless away. Others stumble to the closest bench until they’re shoved off by cops onto others. They sit muttering or waiting for the freeze to saturate the core of some senseless internal refuge.