Boris Timofeyevich stood by the toilet bucket with his head lowered. The sour, stale smell had settled so deep in his nose he found himself breathing only every other breath. Around him, the younger inmates laughed and hollered.
Timur Kremen-Isaev sat on the lower bunk with his legs spread wide, wearing a smug grin. Next to him, like two loyal attack dogs, sat Zhil and Palach. The cell buzzed with ugly energy: one man whistled sharply, another slapped the table with the flat of his hand.
“This is your spot, old man,” Kremen said, slowly sweeping his heavy gaze across the room. “Figure it out now, so you understand who runs this cell.” Boris didn’t lift his tired eyes.
His back was bent, and his arms hung limp at his sides. The gray prison uniform swallowed him whole, at least a size too big. His white hair stuck out in uneven tufts.
His face was cut with deep lines, like an old road map nobody used anymore. He was sixty-two years old. Men like him—worn down, quiet, easy to overlook—were everywhere in the prison system.
“Hey, old-timer,” Zhil said, jumping to his feet and stepping right up to him. He had a narrow face, with skin stretched tight across his cheekbones. “You got any idea where you landed?”
Boris said nothing. “What, you deaf?” Palach barked, slamming his fist into the concrete wall.
The guy was built like a former heavyweight—broad shoulders, thick neck, too much confidence in his hands. Boris had seen plenty like him over the years. They all looked different at first glance, but in the end they were the same: men who believed fists could settle anything.
“Leave the old guy alone,” Sergei said suddenly from the top bunk. He was twenty-three, with a face that still looked too young for prison. He was serving his first sentence for a simple robbery.
“Maybe he’s sick,” the young man added, glancing at Boris. “Did anybody ask you, puppy?” Kremen snapped, throwing him a look as hard as poured concrete.
Sergei turned back to the wall. Boris kept standing there in silence, in the place meant to humiliate him. His worn hands trembled just a little.
His chest burned. His weak heart was acting up again. He had no pills left—his pockets were empty. During transport, the guards had taken everything.
“All right, old man, listen carefully.” Kremen rose lazily and stepped closer. He was a little taller than Boris and much broader through the shoulders.
His face was hard, his cheekbones sharp, and his black eyes gave off a cold, dead look. “My rules apply here. You do what I say, when I say it.
The toilet area is yours now. The slop bucket too. You understand me?” Boris gave one slow nod.
“Good,” Kremen said, patting him on the shoulder. It wasn’t a hard blow, but Boris still rocked from it. “Do what you’re told, and life stays simple.
Start acting smart, and you’ll leave here feet first. Or you’ll end up somewhere worse, if you catch my meaning.” The whole cell burst out laughing.
One man shouted that Kremen had it exactly right. Another let out a sharp whistle. Boris kept staring at the floor in silence…
