Zhirov said. “It makes me worry for you.” Yolkov finished chewing his kasha before answering. “If you wanted to hurt me you could have done it during the riots.” The burly prisoner scoffed through his nostrils. He took a hunk of black bread from the meal Yolkov had laid out before them. Zhirov salted the bread casually, as if it wasn’t a delicacy he’d been deprived of for the last fifteen years. “So, I protected you during the riots, and now my beautiful dreamer thinks he owes me?” Yolkov looked away. “Maybe you believe I’m only going to be nice to you a few times, and then will leave you to rot in the pit. The truth is I actually like your company. You’re more intelligent than any of the shitheads I work with.” Zhirov laughed. “How romantic.” Yolkov’s brow rose, but then he realized he deserved the admonishment. He’d provided the most intimate setting the prison could afford them: dinner alone in the second floor monitoring station. No cuffs. No other guards. Yolkov couldn’t resist seeing him again no matter how many rules he broke. What they’d been through—Yolkov truly believed it had changed his life.
