He sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, head in his hands. He didn’t move much. Just the occasional shuffle of his feet on the cold concrete. The cold floor must be making his feet hurt.

He’d been like that for hours, almost catatonic. Not that there was much to see or do in that room. Cinder block walls, painted in that pukey green colour that was supposed to keep them calm, but really only served to make us all numb. The bed was steel-framed, painted white. Its lumpy mattress was covered with threadbare sheets and a single, thin blanket.

The only break to the monotonous green walls was the door. He sat with his back to it, as if ignoring it might cause it to open. It wouldn’t, of course, but facing the door made him feel the need to act. He’d learned, a long time ago, that action was futile. If there was to be only inaction, he needed his back to the door.