Authors Note: While the imagery is discreet, there are some uncomfortable themes in the following story. If you’re sensitive or have been a victim of crime, you may want to skip this one.
The new paint was already peeling.
Michael Tremaine wasn’t sure how new new was, but new since last time he had been in.
Probably a sign he was getting his shit together.
He knew he was getting his shit together, but there weren’t many mile markers on that road.
Kid in the pink oxford in the cell across and one over, number five, had woken up about twenty minutes ago.
In the old days they’d let you keep your smokes.Kid wouldn’t have any smokes.
Eight cells in the downtown precincts, four across from four, someone always had smokes.
Kid stood for the first time, wobbled, grabbed the bars.
“Excuse me, anyone? Ummm Officers, anyone? I need my inhaler.”
Tremaine looked at the kid, snorted, put his head back against the wall. In the old days he’d never do that because the junkies would spit and froth all over them.
Now they took the junkies straight to Receiving, let ‘em detox there.
Walls were clean. Clean-er, anyway.
The pink oxford kept yelling.
“I need my asthma inhaler!”
Tremaine had been a good decade younger than Oxford when they had first hauled him into one of these places. Now he was three decades older, easy.
“I need my asthma inhaler!!! It’s imperative.”
Oxford was speaking pretty clear English. He must have sobered up quick. Or just spoke such proper English on a normal day that his slurring sounded good to Tremaine.
“I need my asthma in-”
“Hey!” Tremaine bellowed.
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