The Wistful Mirror
The concrete breathes. You feel it through the soles of your boots, a cold, damp exhalation that rises from the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility, a place where the light is yellow and sickly and the air tastes of rust and old sweat. You are not here to be saved. You are here to be counted. The cell is a box. Four feet by eight. The mirror above the sink is cracked, a jagged...
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