A weary man shuffles along a corridor, one of a line of weary shuffling men. The corridor is made of rough concrete and it is cold. Harsh light gives the men’s skin an unhealthy pallor. They are dressed identically in simple garments of coarse grey fabric. No words are spoken. Like the others, the man stares mindlessly at his bare feet. He is vaguely aware of painful soles caused by the rough concrete floor, but of little else.
A law that invariably and by its very design fails to attain its ends is unjust and incommensurably more deplorable than the crime it is intended to punish.
Huge great flashes and weird red things and a moon roughly the size of Alaska. They were driving north when the sky finally broke open and poured down its wrath upon humanity.
Myles passes me my knitted hat. He already has his on. We didn’t used to need to wear a hat to bed, but since The Shearing, everyone’s got to keep their head warm. Nobody’s got long hair anymore.
Surrounding the man were narrow beige walls marked with expletives written in blood. There was little in the cell. A tin mirror bolted to the wall, a steel toilet, bench, mattress, a gray bedsheet, and a washcloth worn with use.
