“Not my first,” Boris said.
“How much time you done?” the man pressed.
“Enough for both of us,” Boris said, and that ended it.
Colony No. 46 greeted the new arrivals with a high gray fence and guard towers. Rusted barbed wire ran everywhere, floodlights burned bright, and dogs barked from somewhere beyond the yard. When Boris stepped out of the transport van, his legs barely held him.
The arthritis had flared badly during the trip. His pain medication was long gone. His heart stabbed at his chest with every breath.
The intake process dragged on forever—papers, fingerprints, mug shots from the front and side. The guards took all his belongings.
In return he got a stiff prison uniform, thin slippers, an aluminum bowl, and a bent spoon. After that the new arrivals were marched into quarantine.
They kept them there for a full exhausting week. Only then did the permanent housing assignments begin. Boris was sent to Cell Six.
When the heavy steel door opened, he saw the faces inside at once. Young men. Hard men. Hungry-looking men. They watched him the way wolves watch a weak animal that has wandered too close.
Boris understood the situation immediately.
This is going to be hard, he thought. Very hard.
He took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. The steel door slammed shut behind him.
There was a short, heavy silence. Then a rough voice said with a laugh, “Well, look what we got. They sent us a grandpa.”
The whole cell burst into laughter.
But the sound didn’t frighten Boris. If anything, it reminded him who he really was. He had been through this once before. And now he would have to survive it again—with nothing but experience and will.
