By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 5: Home Is Where They Won’t Let You Leave
The sun hit my eyes and almost knocked me out; in those windowless rooms I’d forgotten that there was any such thing as sunlight. I heard guards screaming around me; I felt my shoes smacking the concrete as I tried to run. Then I heard “Squat! Gear on the ground! Squat! Gear on the ground! Squat DOWN!” I saw lines of prisoners crouching, their gear stationed in front of them, and other prisoners, lowering their gear, preparing to squat. Somebody—that old guy from the Uniform Room—stumbled, spilled his stack, then bowed and fumbled and bowed again, while a guard stood above him, shouting. I made it to the third line and crouched, heart pumping out of my chest as the last of the prisoners got in position and the guards made a circle around us. At least these guards didn’t have rifles.
But where was I? It was a giant field covered with concrete—old concrete, the kind you see where some big building used to stand, and now there’s nothing left but the floor. Around it, other old concrete, a city of old, yellowish buildings . . . . What did Gordy say? He said they’d repurposed some of the warehouses, and the old factory floors . . . . Afterwards, they must have given all the buildings that coat of Soviet paint . . . . Covers the weather damage, anyway . . . . Smokestacks are still there . . . . Must be the railroad on the other side . . . . But thinking about real estate couldn’t make me forget the pain spreading up my legs. The pain of having to squat on the pavement like a toad! Whatever might exist in my head, my life was totally dependent on the choices of these men in their little light blue shirts.
