By Joshua Ryan
I don’t know how long it took for Grig to unlock the door and take me out of the room, but by that time all the other workies were back in their boxes. End of another perfect day.
“How’d it go?” Grig said. “Buyer like what he saw?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. My job right then was not to break down in hysterical faggot tears.
“Too bad. Sergeant told me the guy’s got money.”
“Yeah. He does.”
“But I guess he’s lookin for somethin special.” We’d reached the door of my box. “In you go,” he said. And he locked me in for the night.
I hoped that morning would never come again, but it did. After that, every day was the same. The only difference was what I got to scrub or shine or wax–one or many times. Officers had a way of finding you on your knees, just finishing up your part of the hallway, and accidentally spilling your bucket all over it. “Too bad. Guess you’ll need to do it again, workie.”
