The first hints of autumn were flashing like a warning sign to the inmates on Work Unit 52. Mark had been working the harvest with the other prisoners, cutting the crops by hand when the machinery broke. There were guards watching him from every direction, watching him and the other twenty men in his team. Sweat was pooling in his eyes as the sun scorched across the grain fields. Soon it wouldn"t be hot. Soon it would be so cold he"d look back on these days fondly. Mark had already spent one winter at the work camp, he wasn"t sure he could bear another.
The whistle sounded. It was time for lunch. He"d take his measly ration of cold soup and stale bread and eat away from the others. The guards didn"t like him, and the prisoners hated him. What was a cop doing in a place like this?
He aske
