Prison

"Open cell forty," the officer shouts at the walkie-talkie and with a disgusting sound, the cell bars-door is opened.

Mahone steps in the cell.

"Close cell forty," behind him, the fat officer shouts again and the door of this tiny, sultry cell is closed again. Mahone puts the white clothes in the edge of the lower bed, then glances at the man lying on the upper bed. The man is less older than fifty, not so big in his body, but he can't see his face, because his back is turned to him.

Dear new cellmate, Mahone utters silently, then drops himself on the single bed. Who knows what kind of criminal you are. A psychopath? Child abuser? Sex defender? A murderer? Or maybe, if God helps, a drug dealer? He sighs and puts an arm below of his head, shutting his eyes.

"Why aren't you in juvenile prison?" a deep, gentle voice comes from the upper bed.

Mahone lifts himself up, "Who are you?"

He hears a chuckle in reply. "It doesn't matter who I am, does i