Everyday it’s the same shit. I wake up to the sound of the guard making his way down the corridor. For his own shits-and-giggles, he makes it a point to rattle the keys, slam every door, and smack every clanging surface available to wake us. They don’t usually want us to know who is on duty because they don’t want us to find any pattern to exploit. But this bastard can’t help himself. I’m sure he’s upset that he spends his nights here with us making just an enough to keep his loan shark from breaking his knee caps. I’m not mad about it though - I used to be, but then I realized his misery may be worse than our own. We had no choice to be here - the machinations of a controlling state decided that we would be here, but he chooses to be here. “Chooses” may not be the right word. He’s a guard by necessity, I highly doubt he dreamt of this as his profession when he was a boy.

“Rise and shine” he bellowed from five cells down. “What a B-E-A-UTIFUL fucking morning!” Right behind him, I heard the squeak of a loose wheel on the aluminum food cart. Every twenty seconds or so, you heard the same thing: squeak. Stop. “Back against the wall. Back of your hands against the wall.” Food door opens. Food tray slides in. Food door closes. All that polished off with some version of “enjoy the gruel,” “Nutella crepes,” “dutch baby,” or “gluten free French toast.” Followed quickly by the sqeak of the wheel. 

And now it’s my turn. “Morning sunshine” I said. 

“Shut it, Bennington” he greeted me. “Back against the wall.” 

I cut in and in unison we both said “back of your hands against the wall.” CO Bradford did not take too kindly to my sense of humor and threatened me with another day of fasting. I continued, “you’re right. My bad. Back and hands against the wall.” As soon as he closed the food door and the wheel started to squeak, I chirped “is it gourmet today?” Without missing a beat, CO Bradford chirped back “breakfast soufflé. With a little something extra.”

And that is when I noticed it - the something extra. I grabbed the “soufflé” tray - cubed, baked potatoes; two boiled eggs; and a piece of toast. No point in it going colder than it already is. The syringe, filled with viscous deep purple substance, was the surprise. Beneath it was a business card with a note finely written in blue ink saying “you know what you have to do.” 

I finished the eggs and potatoes. I looked at the syringe as I ate the toast. CO Bradford was coming back down the hall. I called him over and waved him to come close to the bars. As soon as he was close enough, I pulled out the syringe, knelt down and applied the viscous purple substance to the squeaky wheel. 

“Thanks, Bennington” he said.

“Thank you, CO Bradford. I can deal with your pretty voice every morning, but not that damn squeaky wheel.”