The Chaplain sits up. Rubs his eyes.
“You dozed,” the Prisoner says. He is leaning back on his chair, holding his stomach. “My God, I’m so full.”
“Was it good?”
“It was f*****g brilliant,” the Prisoner says. He burps. “I know why they give it to you so early, though.”
“Why?”
“I’m probably going to puke.” He burps again. A wet one. “They don’t want me puking in the hood.” The Prisoner lets out a quick, bark-like laugh and then stops and looks at the Chaplain, his eyes wide and afraid. The Chaplain can see the fear creep through them, almost like the lens on a bird’s eye – a quick movement, a milky look. He shivers.
“You should take the bed. Lie down.”
“No, man, I need to walk. Burn the calories.” Again, the Prisoner laughs, but this time quietly. “Don’t want to get fat,” he whispers,
