The Study

[Turn 360 and walk away]

A lawyer, a car salesman, a second-year college student, a mall cop, and a carpenter. They didn't know each other. They barely lived in the same worlds.
____

"Morgan, you've always been talking about how you wanted to see the world before it's too late. Think of this as that opportunity."
"You're firing me? Me? I've been here for how many years and never missed a day!"
"not fired. laid off. They're laying you off. The state. Look, budget cuts are cutting all the part-time positions loose. I'm sorry, but it's got to be that way."
"How am I going to pay for school?"
"I'm sorry."

And now Morgan's marching toward a large brick building. Outside, near it's grand entryway, stands a bronze statue of an older, jovial man with children playing at his feet. A legion of people are joined in song as they march toward the building. They all have hand-made signs that cheer for peace. Morgan's says, enthusiastically, "peace makes a rich man and war makes poverty to us all!" It was his belief that the only way to reach these guys was if it was countable. Specifically, countable and ending with the word "dollars."
His hair was long, but well-kept. he had a beard growing in, which was by contrast uncared for and matted with sweat. He was white and grudgingly lower-class, hating that he had to work for anything he wanted while most other pricks got spoon-fed their life until they died.
The song changed as the first lines reached the steps, changing from a slow, pleading wail to a fast and paced anthem, sang loudly over the stomping feet that measured it. Fists were pumping in the air as more bodies crowded the hall. The song grew as the words rippled back from the front and the rear lines changed their song. Fervor blinded them and they started pushing forward. Morgan was watching a protester intently. The way her hips swayed when she marched. He was powerless. He shook himself out of the spell she cast and moved toward her. He was feet from her when she got tackled. A man in brown army fatigues jumped the fence and sprawled over her, pissed off at the march and taking it out on her.
He was still spouting "pro-American" bullshit and shitting on the "cock-sucking liberals" and screaming at the dissenters as Morgan pulled him up. He spun around and took Morgan's collar. Morgan wrapped his hand around the man's throat and held a fist up. The police broke them up, and pulled the army man out of the way. Morgan helped the woman to her feet.
"Thanks..."
"It's nothing. Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I'm Dani."
"Morgan, It's... uhhh, It's nice to meet you."

The neon lights buzzed plaintively over the bar that Morgan and Dani occupied.
"I can tell you something, Morgan. That's the last rally I'll be attending."
"Why's that?"
"I learned that the real fight, the one that matters, is in here," she pointed to her chest, "not out there."
"You figured that out just now, huh?"
"well, no, but I decided to do something about it just now."
They shared the quiet for a second, "Dani? I'd like to see you again."

The sun roared through the parted curtains and Morgan woke up. Dani was holding his hand, kissing his knuckles. "You wouldn't have hit him." she said, like she was uncovering some secret.
"What makes you say that?"
"These knuckles are pristine. I don't think you've ever even hit a punching bag."
"Maybe not." Morgan rolled them over and from above her, kissed her forehead.
She smiled, "I want to go to India."
"What?"
"India. You know, fix the fight in here," She covered her heart, "do some yoga. maybe fuck the instructor guy. Whatever they're called."
"What?" Morgan laughed.
"We'd agree it was a mistake later, of course."
"India, huh?"
"You can come too..."
"That'll cost a pretty penny."
"And?"
"I don't have many of those."
"I saw an ad in the paper..."

[Turn 360 and walk away]

Jimmy "Pit Stop" Pitts was hawking a nice couple from out of state. They were in the market for a smaller, sensible sedan that could give them room for a new addition to the family who was on their way.
He tried selling them everything that fit their needs on the entire lot, but they always found something wrong with it. It's too new, too old, too bright, too dark, too leather, too cloth, and most recently, too used. As if 3 previous owners automatically made a car worthless.
Jimmy was his wit's end. He was payed on commission. He just moved here from God-Forsaken, Montana, and rent was due yesterday. He watched, slack-jawed, as the couple walked across the street to another lot. He could swear the encounter physically aged him, but he wasn't shaken. Another car rumbled onto the lot and he took the nice man to his selection of really, really, big trucks.

"Okay, here, look. it's my entire paycheck, okay?"
"Well, where's the rest of it?"
"It's coming, I swear! I just need a little more time!"
"You said that twice already!"
"Just one more time!"
"Fine."
Jimmy closed the door and wandered to a mirror. The dark bags under his eyes betrayed what otherwise looked like a baby face. People always compared his to Clark Kent. Never a hair on his chin, always perfect hair. Looked great in a tie. He wasn't exceptionally tall, or short. Heavy or skinny. lean or muscled. From the outside, he probably looked like a perfect specimen. At this little ego boost, he smiled and microwaved a bowl of Easy Mac.
When he set the piping hot bowl down on the table, it wasn't much later than 7. He picked up the bowl and Removed the newspaper from under it. A wet circle where the bowl was set surrounded an ad. it promised one grand per day.
Jimmy picked up the paper and read on.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

Howie Dobbs worked with wood just like Jesus did. He used his hands to create something beautiful, too, so in a way, he was a little like Jesus in that way too. In his back pocket was his wallet, and in the pocket opposite was a tiny edition of the bible, the gold letters flaking away from the black leather bindings. The pages were yellow and wrinkled. Some were dog-eared and others were taped back into the spine.
Howie smiled and set the block he was working with aside. It was a table's leg, with a sweeping, scroll-like pattern destined to be inscribed into the outer sides. For now, it was a bare oak block that sat a little under 4 feet tall and tapered in about an inch on one end.
He wiped his brow with the back of his glove and coughed at the dust in the air. With a freshly ungloved hand, he pulled on a chain that hung by his head and on the opposite side of the shop, a large bay door opened. The beads of sweat cut trenched through the dirt and dust on his face and the air from the door chilled his wet skin. His hair was long and blasted back, not quite a mullet, but in conjunction with his thick mustache and sideburns, something most people would expect to see on "Cops."
He stepped out of his gray jumpsuit and walked through the bay door, dropping it shut behind him.

It was customary that he read the paper when he got home. He sat down in an old easy chair and opened it up, with the classifieds on one lap on his pocket bible in the other. On the TV was an old movie. It was old enough to be in black and white, though, it had sound.
"Okay, I'll stay with the car and you can check it out," the man on the screen said. His woman counterpart giggled, "Fine, YOU stay and watch the car while I check it out." the thee-inch-tall man walked to a five-in-tall gate and the TV blinked off with a hiss.
"We got a draft Howard! Close the window!"
Howie kept on his bible.
"You hear me Chicken Shit? We got a draft! Close it PLEASE?"
Howie circled a few items in the paper and begrudgingly pulled himself out of the chair.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

Ryan Cretu tapped his foot against the linoleum as he waited for his shift to be up. Parklane Mall was dull at this time in the night. Teenagers found themselves going home earlier tonight, it was Finals. Soccer moms are already home, making dinner. If it were a movie, tumbleweeds would be rolling across the floor. Perhaps he could sneak out a few minutes early, right? Couldn't hurt anyone.
Ryan tapped his foot and ran his hands through his short, jarhead hair. His bright eyes darted back and forth. He glanced at his watch and hefted a light jacket over his shoulder. is feet dragged, scuffing shined, plasticy shoes. The day was over, and his vacation started tomorrow.
Slumped in his seat. Veronica Sat a plate in front of him and sat down opposite thesmall table that would hardly occupy four. "How was your day Ry?"
"Eh, you kno. just another day."
"It's been just anopther day for a long time now."
"I know, it's just, I'm bored, you know?"
"But you have a vacation, right?"
"I know. I can't wait. But it feels like something big's about to come, you know? Like, Something's going to... shake things up."
"Well, I hope so," Veronica leaned in while she was masticating a small piece of meat, "I love it when you shake me up."
Ryan smiled and picked up the news paper, "Oh, wow. I mean, wow. Lok at this, huh? One grand A DAY. That's a lot of money. And it's just two weeks!"
"You gonna do it?"
"I'm gonna try."
"Can Ihave you one last time then?"
"Right here?"
Veronica smiled.
_____

Jorge Ramirez Strode confedently across a cncrete courtyard, brushing off his shoulders as he talked loudly and tersely into a cell phone. His tie was pressed this morning, but now it blew behind him as he walked, like a crimson flag. His grey suit rippled in the breeze, and he tookcare to avoid the fountain in the center of tbe courtyard.
"Yeah. Why?" He said snippily.
"It'll be good PR for you, you know that. You want politics, this is politics."
"Politics? The Governor thing?"
"yes sir. Helping out your local college will look good. It'll make you look like a champion for higher education."
"will it?"
"Yes sir."
"Fine. Sign me up. Especially after that Consuela case, I need a few good rounds."
"Doing it now sir."
Jorge closed and pocketted his phone and removed his sunglasses as he entered a large glass building. Somewhere in that maze of glass and concrete and steel, his office sat.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

No less than thirty people were lined up against a wall. Some were scribbling in a notebook are making phone calls, there were scattered conversations between the group members as the morning inched onward, marked by the ever-receding line of shade on the ground.
Morgan had a composition notebook in front of him, and with a pen in his other hand, was sketching a small figure with a pronounced nose soaring through clouds. Howie was beside him, skimming through Paul, paying little attention to his pocket bible.
"Whachu got there?" Howie sat his book down.
"It's a character I'm drawing for this new graphic novel I'm starting."
"Huh?" Howie looked quizzically at the cartoonish man with a giant F emblazoned on his chest.
"I've got some comic books out. A few publishers, you know. This is my new one; Flying Man."
"Super hero?"
"Yeah," Morgan said with poorly hidden pride. He blushed without meaning to.
"What's he do?"
"You mean, besides fly?" Jimmy interjected, overhearing the two.
"He flies." Morgan simply said.
"Just flies?" Jimmy said incredulously.
"'Just flies' is a lot. Think about it, huh? A normal guy. Who can FLY. Don't be so jaded, man."
"It'd be a great thing, t'fly," Howie added, "See heaven for miself."
"See, there you go," Morgan took that as a victory, and shook Howie's rough hand to introduce himself.
"If everyone could please enter the building, and take a seat, the doctor will be with you momentarily!" a young woman in a lab coat and wire-frame glasses shouted. She guided the drove of people through a set of steel double doors, and another, and then through some brick work and mortar hallways that looked like they were only used for maintenance.
A wide and long room greeted the flock on the other side of a third set of doors, with a circle of plastic school chairs in a semi-circle around a taller stool.
"The doctor will be with you momentarily. Please find a seat."
And they did. The shuffling and hushed conversation continued for some minutes before being hushed by an old man in a lab coat matching the young woman's. A faint hissing sound echoed in the brick chamber as everyone sat motionless.
"Thank you, volunteers!" The old man said boisterously. He was balding and what was left of his steel hair was standing wisps, like he had been rubbing a balloon against his hair. Heavy glasses perched on a wide and crooked nose.
"I would like to personally thank each and every one of you for participating in this psychological experiment, conducted by the University of Pennsylvania. Though we appreciate your efforts, our students are interested in only a small stratum of individuals. UPenn regrets to inform you that women are not to be subject to this experiment. If you identify yourself as a woman, please exit the way you came. Ms. Peters will be giving you a consolation gift. Again, I am sorry," as the doctor said this, about one third of the seats were made empty.
Murmurs of confusion rippled though the remaining volunteers.
"As for the rest of you, We will escort you to an interview room. There, we will ask you questions and record your answers. If anyone feels uncomfortable at this or any further point, you may leave."

The questions began as simple, yes-and-no bits: "Have you ever committed or have been convicted of a felony?" or "Have you completed High School Education? College-level?" Eventually they escalated: "Where do you live? Please answer with a city name and suburb or outer- or inner-city, as appropriate," and "Why did you sign up for this?" Soon, people began leaving as they were getting asked things such as "Do you consider your childhood 'normal'? Do you consider yourself 'normal'?"

As the interviews persisted, everyone who was left was asked to go home and wait to be contacted the following day.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

"I like to think that this means something divine," Howie greeted the familiar face of Morgan with a swift handshake.
"You made it too, huh?"
"'Perently," the carpenter took a seat.
The doctor addressed the group again, in the same room, albeit, with a smaller group of people around him. The chairs were in a much tighter semi-circle than the previous day. "Thank you sirs, for returning today. Our screenings you took yesterday helped us choose our perfect target group, you," he gestured widely. "All of you were chosen for our tests because you were picked, by our panel of experimenters, as the most socially 'normal'."
The volunteers looked around. Save a few exceptions, the group seemed predominately white and exclusively middle-class. There was 20 people in the room.
"Please stand when I call your names, and stay standing: Howard Dobbs, Arnold Saint-Paul, Jorge Ramirez, Jason Fromherz, Daniel Richards," The five men stood, "Very good. Now, please follow this red line to my left. Yes sir," the doctor turned, "The rest of you, please follow this yellow line to my right."
The groups did as they were told. They headed straight into matching steel double doors on each side, that led into separate hallways.
"See you on the other side," Morgan said to Howie as they filed passed one another.
___

"Here are your uniforms," The doctor said tersely, "Please put them on. Inside of your pocket is a key, which belongs to a locker. Inside the locker is a change of uniform and a piece of paper."
The volunteers followed the implied instructions and opened their lockers after they changed. the lockers were painted black and they were as tall as a man. On the floor were two black boots, which they donned as well, and a lighter-colored uniform. Against the inside of the doors was a key rack which held a short lanyard with a handful of keys, a pair of reflective sunglasses, and an envelope.
"The lanyard and sunglasses are part of your uniform. You must stay in uniform at all times."
The volunteers looked around at each other. They were cookie-cutter now. No one had eyes, they all had glasses on. They all had dark-colored uniforms on, not unlike military fatigues. On their shoulders were four patches. On the left, an eagle clutching olive branches and arrows and a color stripe. On the right, A symbol that looked like a white triangle within a red triangle, with a red dot in the center, and a large white number.
"Please open the envelope and read the contents with me."
___

Morgan jaunted apprehensively down the hall. They were being led by the young woman from before. Through the double-doors was what looked like a PE locker room. The doors were stacked two-high, and each had a cheap combination lock keeping it closed.
The woman called for everyone's attention and spoke loudly over the rabble, "These are your uniforms. You must always wear your uniforms." She handed each man a pair of white boxer shorts, a white tank top, white tennis shoes, and an orange jumpsuit. "Change into them. Now." She turned her back, but continued to speak. "Each of you have a locker. That's the combination on the slip of paper that came with your uniform. Inside your locker is another uniform. Laundry day is Monday. On Monday, you will switch uniforms so we can wash the dirty one. Understood?"
Halfhearted yeses sounded in the room.
"The orange jumpsuit must be worn at all times, above your other clothes."
The jumpsuits had a number sewn into the back, and on the left-side chest.
"When you are done, please line up in single-file on the yellow line and follow it out the door. Thank you for participating."
___

"What drew you to this experiment?"

Jorge's face was burned permanently into a mini CD, tapping his finger against the lens, "I like to help my community."
Jimmy looked at the doctor and squared his jaw, "Rent's due."
Morgan's face twisted as he considered the question, "The money. I'm looking to pay for school. Take a vacation with my girlfriend."
Ryan sighed, but answered quickly, "I was bored with the ho-hum of life as usual, you know?"
Howie nodded his head, "My mom, she broke her hip."

[Turn 360 and walk away]

ONE. ALL SUBJECTS WILL REMAIN IN UNIFORM AT ALL TIMES.

Clip, zip, snap, the group was readying itself. Throwing itself together like a bunch of soldiers of fortune, tying themselves to their keys, batons.

TWO. GUARDS WILL KEEP PEACE AT ALL TIMES.

Howie popped his knuckles one-by-one.

THREE. PRISONERS WILL CLEAN THEIR PLATE AT MEALS.

Jorge stuffed his hands into his pockets.

FOUR. NO HARM WILL BE DONE TO THE PRISONERS.

A man bent down and rubbed his thumb at a scuffed part of his shoe, renewing it's shine.

FIVE. WE ARE GUARDS. WE HAVE AUTHORITY.

"You ready Dobbs?" Howie looked at his shirt and noted the nameplate.
"I guess so, Ramirez."

"Let's do it," Ramirez replied, and hustled into line behind a set of doors that looked bulletproof. Dobbs was right behind him.
___

Morgan looked behind him and tried to get one last glance at the woman as the doors closed. They were in a room, not unlike the one they met the doctor in. The walls were lined with small barred rooms, and against the far wall, a large, brick-and-mortar room stared at the men with darkened windows. The floor had had faded paint scrawled on it that continued the red and yellow lines, as well as a basketball key and hoop on the wall. Everyone in their orange suits seemed apprehensive, and they were restlessly shifting their weight back and forth as they waited. The fifteen men stood like infants, awaiting the doctor.
___

"And here is the guards' quarters. Quarter-inch-thick tinted glass, reinforced steel bars. A couple computers laying about - yes, internet - a bookshelf, homey stuff. That's the kitchen over there. It's small, but it'll get the job done," The doctor was parading through the experimenters' home for the next couple weeks, "The bunks. I don't care how you will choose who gets what, but only one lucky devil will get the single bed. God help you who are stuck on the bottom of a bunk!" He was courteous and genial about it, clamping his hands behind his back as he marched.
___

Numerous cameras scanned the room. Morgan looked at them, counted them, tracked them.
___

"This here is an alarm light. If this goes off, the experiment is over. That means no one gets paid. This will go off if any of the rules get broken. Understood?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"Good. Now go through this door and you'll find yourself in general population. Keep in mind that they know what you are. And they know what they are. Good luck, gentlemen. See you in two weeks!" The doctor knocked twice on a metal wall and it slid open, a security door that only opens from one side. The woman click-clacked in her high heels as she and the doctor talked, nodding and smiling.
___

ONE. ALL SUBJECTS WILL REMAIN IN UNIFORM AT ALL TIMES.
TWO. GUARDS WILL KEEP PEACE AT ALL TIMES.
THREE. PRISONERS WILL CLEAN THEIR PLATE AT MEALS.
FOUR. NO HARM WILL BE DONE TO THE PRISONERS.
FIVE. WE ARE GUARDS. WE HAVE AUTHORITY.


"Have any of you ever served time in jail or prison?"
"No," Jorge.
"Nope," Jimmy.
"Nada," Morgan.
"No," Ryan.
"Not at all," Howie.

"Do you have family?"
"A wife."
"Does a dog count?"
"Yeah, Mom and Pops, and Dani - The girlfriend."
"A wife and a daughter. Two most beautiful things on God's green Earth."
"My mom. That's all."






ONE. ALL SUBJECTS WILL REMAIN IN UNIFORM AT ALL TIMES.
TWO. GUARDS WILL KEEP PEACE AT ALL TIMES.
THREE. PRISONERS WILL CLEAN THEIR PLATE AT MEALS.
FOUR. NO HARM WILL BE DONE TO THE PRISONERS.
FIVE. WE ARE GUARDS. WE HAVE AUTHORITY.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

"Everyone's ready for this?" The guard's nameplate read Fromherz. He was a handsome man with professionally parted blond hair.
"Aye, let's go." Saint-Paul popped his knuckles and pushed the door open ahead of the first man in the lineup, Fromherz. He looked like the antithesis of Fromherz, tall and ugly and mean. A man who had spent his time in some local MMA tournaments and was usually found on the football fields when he wasn't beating the shit out of someone else, his face was dominated by a large and protruding nose that was, unsurprisingly, crooked. He had a thick Boston accent and shaved head to better display his persona, a man who looked to violence as a preferred answer.
The guards exited the room, save for one, who was voted by Rock-Paper-Scissors to sit down in front of the monitor bank and watch the cameras. Morgan smiled and nodded as Howie took his spot on the red line, and stood in parade rest. He took a breath.
"To your cells! One to a cell, come on."
The orange-clad experimenters did as they were told.
Howie talked into a radio on his shoulder and the steel rattled shut. He then turned his attention back to the room.
"Friends, We just have to do this for a couple weeks, so bear with me. Just listen to us, and it'll go smoothly, alright?"
"Yeah," The most prominent voice was Morgan's.
"Alright?"
More voices this time.
"Okay. We all need this money, so just go with it. It's rec time! You get one hour per day. I say now feels like a good time," Howie talked into the radio again and the steel rattled open. Jorge came out of the guards' quarters with a rack of basketballs.

All the guards were outside watching the prisoners as they played a pick-up game. Some were in the corner, quietly discussing, and still others were playing chess. The basketball game was going well and the men were having a good time.
"Hey, Ramirez!" a prisoner passed the ball to the guard, who was standing idly as the game progressed. He woke up to late and the ball found his face, and rocketed into his nose like a one-ton boulder. The other guards rushed to pick him up, and the prisoners all gathered near, save for the one who threw, who stood in the same spot in a sort of shock. Ramirez was pulled to his feet and they met in the guard's quarters.
"Did you see that?" Saint-Paul said, sounding like he wanted to see if he was hallucinating.
"It's just a little bloody nose, guys. It's fine," Ramirez wiped a square of toilet paper across his face to clean the rest of the blood from his lip.
"Well, we can't just let it pass, can we? If we just let this go, we'll be breaking rule 5." Saint-Paul retorted.
"Well, we can't hurt them either." Fromherz added.
"Tit for tat," Saint-Paul suggested, "It's a minor offense."

"On the line!" Howie shouted over the noise of the rec yard. The prisoners got onto their yellow line.
"Thank you, Dobbs," Fromherz said soberly, "Sixty-seven! You realize that you injured a guard." It was more of a statement than a question.
"It was an accident..." the aged prisoner trailed off.
"That may be, sixty-seven, but none of us want this to end, do we?"
"No sir," Sixty-seven shook his head, covered in tight white curls.
"So, drop down and give me ten."
"But, it was an accident..."
"I said ten!"
"He can't do that! Look at him, man! He's old enough that he shouldn't even be here!" Morgan spoke up.
"Eighty! Did I ask you?"
"No you didn't."
"Ten push-ups, all of you! Eighty here just bought some for all of you!"
"Just do it, man," the man standing next to Morgan whispered as he clumsily got to his knees, then into position.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

ONE. ALL SUBJECTS WILL REMAIN IN UNIFORM AT ALL TIMES.
TWO. GUARDS WILL KEEP PEACE AT ALL TIMES.
THREE. PRISONERS WILL CLEAN THEIR PLATE AT MEALS.
FOUR. NO HARM WILL BE DONE TO THE PRISONERS.
FIVE. WE ARE GUARDS. WE HAVE AUTHORITY.

It echoed through the bunk house, through the security room, then through the winding hallway, and into the cell block, and then through the cells, ricocheting between the bars and ending in sunken defeat at the locked doors, rebounding off of the steel. Not a word was called, but the meaning was still imposing, the knowledge stifling.
Fromherz was sitting in a bean bag chair, eating Cheetos. Saint-Paul was on one computer, furiously tapping at the keyboard while faint sounds of laser beams and spaceships reverberated from the innards of the machine. Ramirez was in the desk chair at the security bank, kicking off and spinning in slow orbits as the chair swiveled. Howie was already in his bunk, reading his pocket bible as he prepared for slumber.

Outside of those dark, reflective sheets of glass and plastic, the orange suits stirred on their bunks. 80, Morgan as some of the participants would remember, was sketching on an imaginary notebook. Also something a few people in that room might remember, Flying Man was the subject, though, that name had been in passed hour tentatively been degraded to a place-holder.
Jimmy was going over and over in his head the basketball game from earlier, in which he managed to not only miss a lay-up, but cost the game when he missed a penalty free-throw. His mind was idle in it's rewinding - Jimmy was uncomfortable in the foreign environment.
Ryan was sleeping like a baby. Despite the protests of his neighbors, he continued to snore contently in his sleep.

ONE. ALL SUBJECTS WILL REMAIN IN UNIFORM AT ALL TIMES.
TWO. GUARDS WILL KEEP PEACE AT ALL TIMES.
THREE. PRISONERS WILL CLEAN THEIR PLATE AT MEALS.
FOUR. NO HARM WILL BE DONE TO THE PRISONERS.
FIVE. WE ARE GUARDS. WE HAVE AUTHORITY.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

"let me ask you about a child."

Jorge Ramirez: "Ex's got her. I haven't seen Maria in three years, barring a weekend here or there."
Jimmy Pitts, 16: "Never had none. Women tend to... come and go, see?"
Morgan Schroeder, 80: "Never got that far."
Ryan Cretu, 29: "Two beautiful ones. The loves of my life, really."
Howie Dobbs: "Lord willing, my daughter will let me be a grandfather before my time."
Arnold Saint-Paul, "Nope."

"Okay, a man reaches into his pocket for his watch and drops his wallet as he does so. He exits the store and is gone before you can reach him. Inside his wallet is his driver's license with his address, and numerous bank cards and cash money. What do you do?"
Ramirez: "Return it. Easy. Maybe ask him if he wouldn't mind giving some cash for a reward?"
Jimmy, 16: "Snag a couple bucks and give it back, of course."
Morgan, 80: "Use the address and give it back."
Ryan, 29: "I'd give it to the cashier."
Dobbs: "I do as the good Lord does and return it."
Saint-Paul: "Guy wouldn't miss his cash."

"You are in an African village. Militants storm through and threats are issued that if they see anyone, they will be killed. You are holding your infant daughter as the village huddles in a hut. If you are quiet, no one will find you and your village is safe. Your baby begins to cry loudly and you cannot comfort her. Do you smother your baby to save your village?"

Sergent Ramirez: "Well, I mean, yes? To save everyone."
Prisoner number 16: "NO! Just, no!"
Prisoner number 80: "Are you sick?"
Prisoner number 29: "I couldn't."
Major Dobbs: "That is a worse sin than any committed. I'd try to comfort her."
Staff Sergent Saint-Paul: "I think so, yeah."
___

"Wake up ladies! Breakfast time! Hoo-ah!" Saint-Paul strode up and down the line of cells, banging on the bars with his baton. Weary prisoners rubbed their tired eyes with the heel of their palms and balled-up fists.
"One at a time, folks!" Dobbs was behind the bar with a ladle in his hand. Not unlike a school cafeteria, the orange-clad men filed in a single line past men on the other side of a counter as they throw whatever onto the metal lunch tray. And "whatever" was maybe giving the food too much credit as prisoners prodded at the ambiguous blue-black goo.
"What's this?" 64 asked, standing up from his table.
"Prisoners clean their plate. That's the rule."
"Yeah, but what is this?" 64 pleaded, walking up to Dobbs with his tray in hand.
"It's food, 64."
"Well, it looks like dog shit."
"It's a good thing dog leavings are delicious and nutritious."
"Come on, man."
"No, 64. Clean your plate."
"Here, you have some!" 64 took the tray and politely smiled as he dumped it on Dobbs's shirt.
"64. You are in violation of -" Dobbs didn't get to finish his sentence as a handful of white mashed potatoes sailed through the air and his the side of his face. Dobbs shook in frustration but backed away and through a metal-grating doorway into the back kitchen. He locked the door between him and the cafeteria, letting the prisoners , ramped up on adrenaline, run it out.
Dobbs, meanwhile, was over a sink cleaning himself off. The other guards were standing in a loose huddle near him, discussing in low drones what to do about this.
"We need to do something," Saint-Paul looked across the circle to Ramirez.
"More push ups?" Ramirez offered as he looked to his left, and Fromherz.
"Much more." Fromherz looked across the circle to Dobbs.
"I've got an idea. They used to do this where I worked, kind of."
___

"Prisoners," Dobbs shouted in the holding cells after everything had calmed down, "On the line!"
Everyone lined up nervously as Dobbs paced in front of them, twirling a black baton.
"Due to the behavior exhibited this afternoon, new rules are being instituted immediately!" The guards were working in the cell immediately in front of the line-up, bringing in a new mattress and sheets from the guard bunks. Two to a cell! Move!"
The prisoners scrambled to their cells. Dobbs guided them when they tried to pick a friend to bunk with, pointing and yelling. He used the radio to lock down and after the click of the locks: "This here's the privilege cell. Since 29 didn't take part in that incident at lunch, that will be his bunk. 29! Front and center!"
Ryan did so.
"Welcome to the privilege cell."

[Turn 360 and walk away]

Prisoner 80 rolled off of his bunk, his shoes scraping against the concrete. 17 slid off of the edge of his cot and beat 80 to his feet, slowly stretching his arms and popping his knuckles. 17 was a short man with a funny-looking nose, that was just as short with a prominent, crooked ridge, bushy eyebrows, and a thin mustache that was turned down at the tips, in the fashion of Pancho Villa. On his left bicep was a tattoo: old English lettering spelling "la eMe," likely one of many tattoos. 17 caught 80 noting the tattoo and nodded his head slowly, once, silently saying "you see it, and if anyone else is told, you will pay."
80 raised his shoulders and nodded his head in kind, submitting. "I want that money, man, as much as you do. I don't care if it was stamped on your forehead."
17 raised his eyes to the guards at the door. "Sleep well, ladies?" Saint-Paul said venomously. He unlocked the door with a turn of his wrist and 80 and 17 lined up for breakfast.
"29! Ryan Cretu!"
"Yes sir?" He emerged from a corner of the privilege cell.
"Enjoy breakfast," Saint-Paul gave him a plate of what looked like biscuits and gravy, and 29 took his plate to his bunk and began to ravage the plate. 80 got what everyone else got, a vaguely orange-colored slop. He listened to the chatter in the cafeteria. Yesterday, it was about what they would do with the money. Today, the only topic was how much bullshit the privilege cell was.

An hour passed, and the guards decided that the prisoners had sufficiently cleaned their plates. They were paraded back into the main room. 29 was moving his blanket from the bunk bed to the floor, and a still-warm plate of biscuits and gravy sat, with little more than a bite taken from it, against the bars.
"Ryan Cretu! What is the meaning of this?"
Ryan looked into the nothingness of the guard's eyes earnestly, "I refuse to be anything but equal."
"Finish your goddamn breakfast, 29," Saint-Paul was seething with a tone that threatened like the snarl of a dog.
29 laid in his new bed, on the ground.
Saint-Paul took to screaming through the bars more and more, but Dobbs took a place in front of the other guardsman and unlocked the cell, "Prisoner number 29, all privileges are hereby revoked. Your new bunk is in cell 5," then, "Meeting in the guards' quarters." Dobbs left and the rest did final checks before joining him.

"What a failure. Who's idea was that?" Ramirez kicked it off.
"Doesn't matter who's idea it was. What next?" Dobbs queried.
"A fucking waste of time. He didn't finish breakfast," Saint-Paul noted, at first not realizing the gravity of what he had said.
All the guards glanced at the warning light, and shared a sigh when it was still not illuminated.
"Okay. Okay. We've tried diplomacy," said Dobbs.
"We've tried fucking bribery," added Ramirez.
"We can't hurt them," lamented Saint-Paul, "If we keep this up, we will lose the money."
"Shit," Fromherz simply said.
"We can't hurt them. True. But there's more ways to break a man than beating him," Dobbs said slowly, formulating the sentence ahead of him, "They used to do this. At a college I live by."
"80. That's the guy, I think. 80's always stirring the shit," Fromherz again simply noted. Ramirez grunted in agreement.

"Hey, uh, guys?" 29 was quavering at the bars, "What's up with this guy?"
weakly, a ghost answer, "I need my insulin..."
29 again: "Jesus, he's fucking sweating like a stuck pig over here..."