“You look like shit.” 96 greeted me back.

“Oh, good. Feel it too.” Whatever they did for me in the infirmary was substantial when I could walk and move, but I hadn’t been able to get much food down. I needed to, my stomach was empty, though, despite my best efforts, I wasn’t able to finish off my helping. My appendages didn’t feel my own. They were wobbly and had their own individual thumping pulses.

96 shoved me hard into my bunk as I entered back with a sway to my strides, “Stay the hell away. If you puke on me, I’ll snap your neck.” It didn’t disturb Jay who was, as usual, already back in his spot ignoring us.

I put my hand over my mouth and stumbled in an exaggerated manner. Approaching him, I spoke shakily, “What was t-that…oh god,” with mock gagging. I puffed my cheeks up with air.

“Fucking disgusting.” As 96 made a quick retreat, a vein protruded from his boney forehead.

I was directed back with a gentle pull on my shoulders by 81. Looking over him at 96, I popped my full cheeks and showed him my empty mouth. Riled, he filled his chest and made an aggressive stomp forward. Whatever look 81 gave him made him decide it wasn’t worth it. Did being roommates with 81 for so long grant him an influence over 96? Older people tend to respect each other more than their juniors if that was any explanation. The notion cast 81 in a troubling light too, maybe he had wrestled for that control and won. There could also be no cause at all, only that people will find excuses to disrespect each other if given an opportunity to.

“We’re not your damn children.” 96 scoffed at 81 and sauntered over to the toilet-sink.

He shrugged and waved it off. “Then stop acting like them.” 81 countered with not near as much malice as that comment would need to be offensive.

I blinked at him, it took me a second to resurface the statement exactly, then to put the part of it together I found curious. During that time, he made it over to his bunk and sat down. I stood beside him and tried, “So, when you said you were a wrangler…?”

“Kids, two actually.” It was the first hint of genuine warmth I’d heard from him. “And you?”

“Uh…”  I most definitely did not have children.

“56 is a virgin bitch. It’s obvious.” 96 butted back in, beating his wet hands against his pants. “Same for the jailbird in his nest up there.” He gestured to Jay. I found the nickname too well-suited to not let it hold my attention over what he intended to be a scathing remark. I was sure the term insulted Jay more than the take on his experience, pressing himself further against the wall, and that I found amusing. That is until 96 gripped my chin between his fingers and held the top of my head with his opposite palm. He yanked my neck forward like he was displaying my face for 81 to see. “How old are you? You look like a fetus. Like you’re fucking 12.”

I tried to shake him off, but he was too committed to berating me. 81 didn’t try to help either. He also waited for my answer.

After I tapped my index finger a few times against 96’s steadfast forearm, thinking it over, I said, “Actually, I’m 56.”

“Fuck off.” He dug his dirty nails into my cheeks until I weaseled loose. 

I would have unleashed a barrage of complaints at 96 and his inability to take a damn joke if 81 hadn’t said, “Can’t be younger than 21.”

 I sharply came back to attention, “What?”

“Inertia doesn’t take prisoners below 21.”

That couldn’t be true. If it was, they made an exception on one account. “I’m 20.”

“Must have done some shit.” 96 cooed right as the lights cut again. Everyone acted as if they’d suddenly been shut off as well, energy robbed and voices low. The squeaks of plastic holding weight replaced our chat, but I was once again left in the cell’s center, dumbfounded.

“Are you really?” 81 asked, curious rather than skeptical.

Where he had landed,  I heard him pat the hard floor in front of his cot to invite me to join him. Following the sound, I dropped to the ground.

Seated, I replied in the same considerate volume, “They probably just said to hell with the six-month difference. Forty years is a long time, what’s another six months?” Despite my nonchalance, I felt cheated. If there was any hope of me getting a release on oversight of my age, I didn’t let it grow. The belief that it was a mistake was already wishful thinking. I was more of the opinion they’d already known.

“Six months is a long time too.” 

“Maybe.” This conversation was becoming difficult. Pulling at the fabric of my pants, I shifted the topic back on him, “How long have you been locked up?”

81 exhaled a short, dry laugh, “No idea.” After I had yet to see a way to differentiate the passing of time, it wasn’t a surprise to hear. Even our days here felt unreasonably short. I had no proof besides a betrayed internal clock. “Some people use their hair to measure time. Count how many shaves as a marker. I never did, and it’s looking a bit late to start now.”

“I know what year it is, if you know the year your sentence started, we can find the difference.” I offered, wanting to know how many years it had taken 81 to get this accustomed as a point of reference.

He denied me. “I think it’s for the best to be ignorant. Eventually, they’ll come to escort me out and I’ll get to think, “Huh? That time already?”

A frustrating response. “You’ll just accept not knowing?” I disagreed and it made me agitated he chose it.

“Am I supposed to do something else? It won’t change anything, will it?”

“Well-”

“It won’t.” He cut to the chase that I didn’t have a counter. “So, I focus on the things that won’t change. Not all of them are bad. I will wake up. I will be released. I will see my family again.”

It was a ridiculously optimistic pretense to have. If this was the kind of naivety he was using to keep himself afloat, he’d be better off giving up now. It was worthless to him. And to me. 

         “You don’t know that they’ll wait for you.” I shot back.

My response sent us into a silence as though asleep ourselves. I listened to the deep breathing of 96 and wondered if 81 would say anything back or if I should retreat. His response was only what he decided to give me when any physical tell of his feelings was eaten away by the pitch black. At least I could tell there wasn’t a tenseness in the body next to me when the air kept mostly the same. 

Just when I was about to rise, 81, in his normal tone, invited me back. “56.” 81 reached over, found my hand, and held it in both of his. Then, he moved my fingers around. A fist at first, then he tugged two fingers outward, then he put them all back together again.

“Aya.” He finally said. “That’s my daughter’s name. She was born deaf, can’t hear a thing, so I started learning sign language to teach her one day. She’ll probably know more than me by the time I see her again though.” He replaced the hand he stole back into my lap, “That means I can’t get rusty in the meantime. I’ll teach you.”

No composed reaction came to me when I believed with adamance that his principles were misguided, that the boat he had counted on keeping him above water was punctured through with holes. He knew better and was being idealistic regardless, deciding instead to ignore all the contradictory signs on the basis of good faith that lacked proof of even existing. I knew all these things were true and yet, I felt like there was something I didn’t understand. Something integral was missing that he knew and I didn’t. Whatever he’d done to portray that kept my arguments locked up in my mouth.

“56?” 

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll learn.”