Shane stares at the wall. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I almost get used to how much it sucks being stuck here, especially for something I didn’t even do. I accept the fact that I’m going to have to ask permission to use the bathroom for the rest of my life, I’ll never get to hold a real job, I’ll never get to drive a car again, I’ll never get to be with… with a woman again. That every meal I’ll eat for the rest of my life is going to taste like slop. That once a month, a bunch of guys will jump me in my cell and beat the shit out of
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I feel SICK
