Lockdown, it turned out, meant dinner served by a surly guard who slammed the tray through the food slot, spilling half of the stew on the floor. Felipe couldn’t tell what meat was in the stew and he normally hated carrots but he ate everything on the tray—the boiled potatoes, the mystery meat, the two logs of stale cornbread. For a minute he ached fiercely for a cold beer—salty, lush on his tongue—then deliberately pushed the thought away.
Don’t want what you can’t have. 730 days.
He pushed the dinner tray outside and gazed around the cell. An electric shaver sat on the rusty sink. Next to it, an old-fashioned plastic black comb held red hairs and dandruff. Felipe remembered his father having a comb like that, taking it from a back pocket, using it to comb Felipe’s hair before school.
