In the morning, Joe opened his eyes and caught Dubois staring down at him. Then Joe realized Dubois wasn’t staring down at his face, but at the bulge of his morning wood under the sheet. Joe quickly sat up, and Dubois turned away, his cheeks coloring a little.
At the gate, two unlucky inmates were standing by the bars, silent and gaunt. Waste duty. A guard opened the cell and Dubois watched the whole scene with his usual disinterested air. His hair was disheveled and his cheeks were now coarse with red whiskers, but even in his torn wool sweater and badly neglected boots, the man still managed to look superior to all of them.
The cell was locked again. There was ten minutes to go before breakfast.
Joe made his bed, tucking the sheets and blankets in tightly, until all creases had disapp
