But that day, we had a good officer. When he came in for his shift, he saw Washington and a few of her friends cooking together in the common room, hogging the hot plates so no one else could make food. And he issued an order: “It’s Thanksgiving. If you’re cooking, you’re cooking for the whole damn unit.” So they did. The rest of us got together and donated commissary items. Supplies were limited, and spices weren’t allowed—except what we got on the prison black market, smuggled out of the mess hall in strip-search gloves. When it was all done, they shouted, “Get your bowls! Get your bowls!”
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