Michael kneels on concrete just behind a row of empty folding chairs. One by one, others enter quietly and join him. A few kneel, others sit. All seem to be in an attitude of anticipation. They are accustomed to waiting.
The wail of a steam-powered whistle sounds and the frenetic pace of life in prison slows, falters, halts. It is time for the 10:00 a.m. count.
The vimpa drapes my shoulders; its fringes hang to my knees. I clean my hands and wipe them dry and steady myself in...
The remainder of this article is only available to paid subscribers.
Print subscribers to Commonweal are entitled to free access to all premium online content. Click here to purchase a print subscription, or if you’re already a print subscriber, register now for premium access.
Online-only subscriptions provide access to all premium online articles for just $34/year. Click here to subscribe.