"What difference does it make who they are?" Cheryl said. "Their threats are hollow."
"You're partly right," I said. She gave me a wary look. "It doesn't really make a difference who they are or where they're from. But their weapons tell me two things. One is that Russell knows what he's doing. He's no amateur."
"More speculation," Cheryl said.
"And what's the other thing?" Slattery asked.
"That these guys aren't here by accident," I said.
32
A long time ago I'd learned that you can pretty much get used to anything.
There was no privacy at Glenview, even at night, in your own room: a surveillance camera mounted near the ceiling, its red eye winking in the dark. No doors on the toilet stalls. But you got used to it.
You learned to create your own zone of privacy, hide your emotions behind a mask of stoicism. To show emotion was to show weakness, and weakness got you hurt.
You can get used to pretty much anything if you have to. The food was inedible-rubbery fake scrambled eggs, bright artificial yellow, sometimes with a coarse human hair coiled around one of the curds; unsalted boiled potatoes with dirt-crusted peel mixed in; slices of stale white bread; rancid bologna, slick and green-tinged-until the hunger pains grew too strong.
If you needed to piss at night, you had to knock on your door until a guard came. Sometimes he'd come, sometimes not. You learned to pee into a towel in the corner of the room.
You learned to fight when challenged. Which happened over and over until your place in the hierarchy was established, until the other kids learned to leave you alone.
But you also learned to respect the natural order.
In the chow hall one day, Estevez "accidentally" bumped into me. I ignored him, kept moving. A mistake: Estevez took it as a sign of fear. But I was hungry, and they only gave you twenty minutes for lunch, which included waiting in line and bussing your tray.
He bumped me again. My orange plastic tray went flying, spilling brown gravy and gristle and peas everywhere.
This time I didn't wait. I drew back and slugged him in the mouth so hard that he actually rose a few inches off the floor. My fist throbbed in pain: A tooth was lodged between two knuckles.
Estevez crashed against one of the stainless-steel tables, spitting teeth. I saw my opportunity, went after him again, and then my lower back exploded in pain.
Someone had hit me from behind. I sunk to my knees, gasping.
Glover was swinging his baton. "Go back to the dayroom and wait for me," he said.
I sat on the bench in the deserted dayroom and waited.
When Glover arrived, ten minutes later, he approached me slowly, as if he were about to confide something. Instead, he grabbed my hair, gave me a hard backhand slap on one side of my face, then the other. Rhythmic, almost: one two.
"Hey!" I yelled.
"How's that?"
He kept at it, one side, then the other. One two. "How's that? How's that feel?"
"I didn't start it," I croaked.
"I want to hear you cry, bastard," he said.
His fist crashed into one side of my face, then the other. One two. Blood seeped into my eyes, from my nose.
"Cry, bastard," he said.
But I wouldn't.
One two. One two.
I knew what he wanted, even more than he wanted me to cry. He wanted me to hit him back. That would get me confined to solitary for three months. But I refused to give him the satisfaction.
"I'm not stopping till you cry, you bastard."
I never did.
33
What do you mean?" Slattery said. "You think they planned-"
But then we fell silent as Verne brought Ali over. He held a gun on her: a stubby little stainless-steel Smith & Wesson with a two-inch barrel. She sat, looking angry and remote.
"I enjoyed that, sugar tits," Verne said with a manic leer. "Let's do that again soon without our clothes, huh?"
Ali gave him a glacial stare. Under her breath, she said, "I'm not really into short-barreled weapons."
He heard it, though, and he hooted. "Whoa, that chick's got a mouth on her! We'll see what you can do with that mouth later."
"Yeah," Ali replied. "I've also got sharp teeth."
He hooted again.
"Hey, Verne," I said.
He turned, eyes wild.
"You touch a hair on her head, and I'll take out your good eye."
"With what?" He smirked. "You can't even take a piss unless I say so."
"Hey," Barlow called out. "Speaking of which, I need to take a leak. Badly."
"So?"
"What the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Wet yourself for all I care," Verne said with a cackle.
"I'm serious," Barlow said.
"So'm I," Verne said.
Barlow gritted his teeth. "This is torture. I'm not going to make it."
I gave Ali a questioning look: Are you okay?
She smiled cryptically, maybe thanking me, maybe chiding me. She seemed more angry than frightened, which wasn't surprising. That was Ali: She was a fighter, not easily intimidated. Maybe that was the legacy of her Army-brat upbringing. I'm sure it was also something Cheryl had recognized in her immediately, a trait the two women shared.
"Excuse me," Latimer called out. He looked haggard. "I need my…insulin."
"Your what?" Verne said.
"There's a kit upstairs in my room. In my dresser. With syringes and a blood test kit and some vials of insulin. Please. Just let me go up and get it."
"You're not bringing a bunch of needles in here. Sorry, guy. Deal with it."
"But if I-please, if I don't get my insulin, I could go into a coma. Or worse."
"Hate to lose a hostage," Verne said, swiveling away.
"At least could I get something to drink, please? I'm dehydrated."
Verne was out of earshot.
"I didn't know you were diabetic, Geoff," Cheryl said. "How serious is this?"
"Hard to say. I mean, it's serious, but I don't have any symptoms yet. Just really thirsty."
"You're late with a shot?"
He nodded. "I usually give myself an injection before I go to bed."
"Did you mean it about going into a coma?"
"If too much time goes by, it can happen. Though I think I'll make it for a couple more hours. If I drink a lot of water."
"Damn them," Cheryl said. She turned around and yelled, "Someone get this man a glass of water now! And his insulin!" Her voice echoed.
Hank Bodine stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked around groggily, groaned, then shut his eyes again.
Travis came over, gun leveled. "What's the problem?" he said, scowling.
"Get this man some water," she said. "He's a diabetic, and he needs water immediately. He also needs his insulin shot."
"And I need to use the restroom," Barlow added.
Travis looked at her, at Latimer, and said nothing.
"And will you get Mr. Bodine a pillow, please?" she said. She pointed toward the jumble of displaced furniture. "A sofa pillow, at least."
"That's up to Russell," Travis said. "I'll see." Looking uncomfortable, he turned, crossed the room toward the dining area, and began speaking to the crew-cut guy, Wayne.
"Thank you," Latimer said. "Even if they won't get my insulin, the water should help."
"Will you please not mention water?" said Barlow.
"I still haven't heard why Landry thinks this whole thing was planned," Slattery said.
"Who cares what he thinks?" said Bross. "He's not even supposed to be here."
"Let's hear him out," Cheryl said.
"They're wearing the wrong brand of hunting vest," Bross went on. "A big fashion 'don't' in your world, that it?"
I refused to let him get to me. "They came in here knowing exactly where to go and what to do. They weren't stumbling around. These guys know too much. They knew where everything was the second they arrived-the kitchen, the front door, the upstairs. They knew which exits to cover. As if they'd scoped the place out in advance. It just feels too well planned to be a coincidence-too well coordinated."