16
Vomit coloured walls—four of them. Shitty coloured door—one. One table. Four chairs. All of them hard as hell. Surrounded by a billion particles on the air carrying an assault of scents.
Welcome to the interview room, where you can’t wait to leave but you ain’t going nowhere 'til they let you out.
Didn’t help that the two officers who’d come picked me up had dumped my hide in there, and then informed me that 'someone will be along shortly’—which, translated, probably meant: we’re leaving you to stew awhile before the interrogation begins.
In case they watched me from some hidden room, I sank as casually as possible into my chair. My fingers itched to fiddle. My hands itched to drum my knees. My knees itched to jig. I held myself rigid to stall any of those from happening. The s**t I
