“Lights out, ladies!”

She walked down the corridor, checking the cells one last time before her shift ended. You couldn’t stand too close to the bars; a hand could reach out to grab you. You had to see everything within in a single glance; projectiles could be, at best, an embarrassing mess; at worst, a weapon. Slurs were nothing more than air, old hat to ignore. But spitting was cause for discipline.

The last cell was HERS , and she was waiting, same as every night.

“Guardian,” she began, in a sing song voice that didn’t match the look in her eye. “Keeper. Custodian. Keep it safe, keep it clean. Keep it OR-derly. Does that make you a janitor? Mr. Webster tells me they mean the same.”

To answer back was as good as begging for a riot. “Good night, ladies!” she called out, taking care not to look into the last cell.

Guard? Custodian? Janitor? Hell, janitor was right.

Who else would keep society’s shit at bay?