A few weeks later.

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Rooterdale's low-security correctional institute doesn't show enough movies. Three days a week, two movies per day; six pieces of modern Hollywood trash. Lying in bed, Waylon traces — by sight — the metal lattice of the top bunk's underside. It wouldn't hurt them to play one of my suggestions.

And he's made plenty of suggestions the last couple weeks: Reservoir Dogs, Twelve Angry Men, Rashomon. In hindsight, the reason they refused is obvious.

He rolls onto his side. Can't help I'm in a specific mood.

Above, his cellmate shifts. The bed frame shakes and creaks with every movement, letting lose a metallic whine that resonates in Waylon's teeth. A couple seconds pass; the ruckus stops. In its place, Ronan's faint, Irish accent comes hushed. "One, two, three, four, five, six—"

It's grating; excruciating. A grim reminder. Each second, a second closer. Waylon sucks a breath through his teeth. "Do you always have to do that out loud?"

"— ten, eleven, twelve—"

"Hello?"

"— thirteen, fourteen—"

Waylon flops onto his back and kicks the underside of Ronan's bunk. "Come on!"

That does nothing to deter Ronan. Voice unwavering, he counts to twenty. Silence comes after. Silence, not counting the men's exaggerated breathing: Ronan's steady and calm; Waylon's heavy from a mere kick.

Waylon hisses through staggered breaths. "Why? Every two hours, every single day. Every time out loud. Just, why? What do you get out of it?"

Ronan peeks over the side of his bunk, revealing his usual burr. Though — thanks to their irregular access to razors — his cheeks, jaw, and upper lip bear a strikingly even layer of red stubble. He scratches at it. "Sorry! Can't say. You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you?"

"There's no where to go; nothing left to look forward to. Why would I? How would I?"

"A watch, maybe?"

"Do they even let us have watches?"

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"I've got no idea. You know what—" Lacing his fingers into the metal lattice on the underside of his bunk, Ronan flips end-over-head and drops to the floor. With a couple steps, he juts his face between their cell door's bars. "Guard! Any guards? Hello?"

Waylon's chest roils. He rolls onto his side to face the wall. Why is he always like this?

Heavy boots echo down the hallway. A guard stops feet from their door and his voice comes grizzled, low. Exactly what you'd expect from a guard. "Yeah? What is it this time, Ronan?"

"Are we allowed to have watches?"

"Why?"

"Curiosity."

"Ah." The guard hobbles back the way he came, calling over his shoulder. "How about I go ask my superior and get back to you?"

Ronan squeezes his head between the bars as far as it'll go. "I'd appreciate it! If you wouldn't mind while you're at it, could you check with him about my question on— oh, he's already around the corner."

Chest still roiling, Waylon counts the wall's bricks — far different from counting the seconds. Why does he even bother?

"I'm sure he'll check." Ronan says, voice trailing off. There's a shuffling of feet, then Ronan's voice booms right near Waylon's ear. "For time: I'd guess it's about noon."

Wincing at his volume, Waylon shifts closer to the wall. "I could hear you fine from beside the door."

"What about the human connection! Shouldn't we look at each other when talking?"

"I don't want to talk."

"What else do you have to do?" Ronan drums his fingers along one of the bunk's vertical supports. "You know, I wasn't sure what being bored felt like before getting put in here. This is it, right?"

"Yeah." Waylon says. A simple answer, yet the question doesn't sit right in his mind. He flips over to face Ronan.

The man is there, squatting. Face inches from Waylon's own and his breath minty.

Waylon recoils, planting his back against the wall. "Ah— god. You're really saying you've never been bored?"

Ronan's eyes light up and his incessant finger drumming stops. "Isn't this better? Eye to eye, soul to soul. It really feels like we're getting to know each other! But, I am saying that: I've never been bored. How can you be with so much to learn? So many sensations to experience?"

Bitterness taints Waylon's tongue. "You've never had to fill hours at a job you hate? Waste away in a doctor's office, waiting for your name to be called?"

"Neither of those. Though, I can say that whenever I've had to wait, I use my phone. Aren't they great? Learning or playing anywhere!"

"How fortunate for you."

The guard from earlier plants his boots in front of their cell. This time, Waylon can see him. Dead eyes, heavy, and a balding head. He raps a baton — extended — along the door's bars, producing a discordant ringing. "Waylon Ishii, you've got a visitor."

Ronan practically leaps to his feet and rushes to the door. "Did you get an answer? And did you check about—"

"Oh, shut it Ronan. You'll get your answers soon enough."

They bicker back and forth, but Waylon doesn't hear the rest. His stomach is gone: dropped through his body and down to the floor. The guard's words replay a dozen times, echoing through his mind as if resonating within an audial kaleidoscope: You've got a visitor.

A visitor. a visitor. a—

There's only one thing it be; one reason someone would visit him. A reason Waylon stuffed into the back of his mind, desperate to forget — unsuccessfully.

Gina. She's gone.