They will shave him first. And wash him. They will wash him of his sins. Or so the Chaplain imagines. He is hazy, confused. Sad. Tired, of course. The Prisoner asks them if he can shave his face, if he can at least go to hell without a day’s growth. They will not let him. Of course they won’t. They can’t leave a condemned man with a razor. And they don’t have time to shave him themselves. Why would they? Who has time for a dead man?
The Chaplain isn’t sure why the Prisoner didn’t shave before, when he had his shower. But that was almost ten hours ago.
“Not even an electric one?” the Prisoner says, scratching his cheeks. “Jesus, man. I’m itchy.”
“Won’t be for long,” a CO jokes.
It isn’t funny.
They shave patches on his arms, his legs. They give him soap and a washcloth and stand by whi
