Page 142 of Crave

Then my door slides open with a loud buzzer.

“Mess number three.” A staticy voice blares over a speaker.

I watch two rows of cells open on both sides of the hall.

Food?

Everyone shuffles out forming lines towards a big set of double barriers. I fall behind a short hunched man with a wave of matted gray hair.

A fist drives between my shoulder blades, nearly crumpling me to the concrete.

Maybe that is the man I’m supposed to end?

As I fall, I sweep my leg behind me and take him out at the ankles.

With a grunt, he falls backwards, bouncing his head on the hard floor.

Before anyone stops me, I leap onto his chest and gouge my thumbs into his eyes until they give.

With a scream, he bucks his hips and throws me off, his palms covering his empty sockets as he rolls back and forth.

“That’s what you get for getting me when I didn’t see it.” I step over his leg and fall back into place behind the old prisoner.

I’m nearly into the cafeteria when two guards trot by with a stretcher carried between them.

One gives me a subtle glare, but they don’t say a word.

I didn’t do anything wrong. Just fought back.

Soundlessly, the old man picks up a metal tray and then points at the stack, his wrinkled face turning to glance at me.

Following his cue, I pick one up and slide it onto the rails like him.

His gnarled finger jabs at the array of questionable foods behind the plexiglass screen and tucks his dish under the narrow gap at the bottom.

Green, purple, and brown slop get dropped in the cavities of my tray before I pull it back.

What the shit is this?

Is this edible?

There’s a bin of round wooden spoons near the end that the old hunched figure grabs out of.

Monkey see. I get one too.

He seems nice enough, so I follow along behind him, passing the glares of the other prisoners.

Not sure what the fuck I did to make them mad.

I don’t really care.

The age-spotted hand reaches out again and points to a spot on one of the long benches by the table.

There’s a large empty circle around us, like everyone is too afraid to sit close.

Is it me, or the old man?

“Are you going to shank me over this dog food?” I ask him quietly once I’m facing him.

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