“No, really,” the Chaplain says.
“I don’t know. I don’t really care. Maybe . . .” the Prisoner rolls to face the wall, “. . . maybe he’s going to die before me in order to save me a place beside him at the dinner table.”
He won’t die that quickly, the Chaplain thinks, but says nothing.
The Chaplain looks at the digital clock on the wall. The Prisoner says, “You got somewhere to go?” even though he is facing away from him. How did he know he was looking at the clock?
“No. Of course not. I’m here for you. We can talk about anything you want. We can be silent. We can pray together. Whatever you want.”
“What’s the time?” the Prisoner asks, without looking up at the clock.
“Twelve-thirty-five,” the Chaplain says. “Seems later than that, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess.” The Prisoner yawns an
