Yet my being there to help him back up means nothing. It’s too late, or so he says. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it, or I might as well s...art digging his grave. I sit on the edge of his bed, and he comes to me, wrapping his arms around my legs, resting his head in my lap, and I stroke his hair. One of his hands will reach out, and I’ll take it in my own, our fingers intertwine. His thumb brushes back and forth over my palm, and my fingers stroke across his neck. He’ll sit up and go back. He stands back and looks at me. It's a curious stare, appraising but not sexual."Hmmm, so you just startin' out here, Hon?" Yes, that's right; I arrived here, er, yesterday, I think." What am I thinking? He knows exactly when I got here. He was in the bus with all of us.I have no watch — they said not to bring one - and there's no clock in my room. Room? Actually cell, I guess, but I can't quite bring myself to say that. I feel a bit embarrassed to be here. Now that is incongruous! Worrying. More

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