In a dump of beige concrete, you're given 25 years. You don't blink. The person staring back at you keeps talking but she shouldn't be the one to leave you with this news. And as you lean down to the bottom of the window where there are holes for speaking, you think how unfair it all is. Look around you, even I don't want to touch these walls. You're so young and the smell of this place is too strong. Blame the dust for tears.
But this is all make believe. You don't cry and you've grown used to the smells around you. 25 years. It's a safe enough place to keep us away from the street, if only for a little while. Back to the kitchen, to clean off piss filled tables.
Only the attorney seems guilty.