When the Chaplain re-enters the cell, the smell of vomit hits him. It is strong and sour and vile. The Prisoner is lying on the cot, facing the wall.
“Are you okay?”
“No, yes. No. No.” The Prisoner does not turn to talk to the Chaplain. “I ate too much, I think.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Did you get me the Pepto-Bismol?”
“Oh no, I forgot. Oh, I forgot. I’m sorry. I can get some now. I’ll get a CO to run for it.”
“Don’t bother.” The Prisoner rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy. He’s been crying. “I think I got everything out anyway. I should feel better in a bit.”
The Chaplain sits down on the chair, tries to calm his gag reflex, breathes through his nose. He can see specks of vomit around the toilet and stuck within the bowl. Won’t the C
