“Clothes off,” said Pigface. “No, no, no, no, no, no!” Obs was an oddly shaped cinder-block chamber, not square, not circular—a hexagon maybe—about the size of a public restroom stall. There was nothing in there except a bucket and a roll of toilet paper on the cement floor near a drain hole. In the light of the open door, I saw blood and feces smeared on the wall. When the door slammed shut, the only light filtered through a small window with wire mesh inside the glass. It was freezing cold. I read somewhere recently that they keep it between fifty-five and sixty degrees, but it felt as raw
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