Forty-Eight
Clarence shivered, though fully dressed and covered with a blanket.
He stared through the window far above. More bars.
The concrete block wall was just like prison. Nicer facilities here, at least. It struck him that this cell should have felt familiar—like home. He had lived his whole adult life in a cell. Even though these walls were devoid of his years of artwork, scratches and hash marks, it was still a cell with bars and concrete.
He pulled the blanket over his head.
He didn't belong here. The thought shook him. If not here, and not Hillcrest, he was homeless.
The office door scraped open. A crack of light beamed toward him.
He tensed, barely making out a silhouette. The shadows shifted, and a person walked to Clarence's cell, hands resting on the bars.
"Clarence?"
