He comes in from his party. I think he’s been drinking. “Merry Christmas,” he says. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas. I’m in prison.” I’m usually careful not to talk back. But I can’t help myself today. “It’s not a prison,” he barks. “You have it good.” “It’s worse than prison,” I tell him. “If I were in a regular prison my family would know that I am alive and they could come visit. Prisoners get to go outside for an hour a day. I can’t do anything. I can’t even feel sunshine on my face.”
