By Joshua Ryan
I was in another tall, old room, but this one was tall and narrow. Along one wall was a set of shelves, with line after line of metal baskets on top of them. Along the opposite wall was another one of those big old-fashioned desks — only this one was loaded with computer equipment. The equipment looked strange in a room like that, almost eerie. It was like two worlds were being jammed together. . . . The tears were still in my eyes, running down my face. I was having a hard time focusing . . . “Hit the prints!” someone barked.
There was a guard sitting behind the desk, and the guard was already yelling at me. “The prints on the FLOOR!” I looked at the floor. There was a pair of yellow feet painted there. I put my freshly polished black shoes on the fading yellow feet and looked back at the guard. He wasn’t looking at me. He was writing something, and it took him a long time. That is, I think it did. Time was strange at the moment.
The guard put a stamp on a thing that must have been part of my “docs”; then he got up and strode to the other side of the desk. He was young. He was Mexican. He was short and slight. His grays were freshly washed. His hair was freshly slicked and combed. There were deep thick furrows running through it, like newly plowed earth. And he had a paddle dangling from his belt.
