“Look at this.” Dawson was staring down at Joe’s ripped cot. “This is prison property. You can’t just―”
“Get over here.” Roughly, Crawford manacled Joe’s wrists, grumbling words under his breath. He surveyed the damage and pointed to Dawson. “I want you to make written notes of every infraction, understood?” He kicked the empty waste basket. “Filthy! Just goddamn filthy!” He shoved Joe forward. “You’ll be staying inside today, Vega, and you’ll be scrubbing these walls and floor until your knees bleed.”
Joe stared at him. He wanted Dubois.
Only Dubois.
What had they done to him? Why couldn’t they tell him? Where was he?
Was he dying?
The old man squinted at him, disgusted. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? Is it because of your little wife’s troubles? Is that why you turned your cell up
