Bull Talbot was doing pushups when the warden came. He never bothered to count them, though the number was well into the hundreds. For Bull, pushups was simply what he did.

“Talbot!” shouted the warden. “On your feet!”

Bull lifted himself off the cell floor. What was the warden doing here so soon after lunch? Strange. “Th’ hell you want?” he snarled.

“How long you think you’ve been in here?” The warden’s tone was low, but warm. Not the authoritative bark he usually spoke with.

Bull wasn’t sure how to answer; he had no concept of time. Every day was yesterday and tomorrow and forever, pushups and bland food and monthly physicals. Syringes. The best health care the State of California could afford, keeping him alive—for what? For pushups.

He shrugged.

“You’ve done your time,” said the warden.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. 195 years. You’re a free man, Talbot.”

He was supposed to die in here. How could he be that old? He felt young, strong. In a daze, he followed the warden out into blinding sunlight.