Twenty minutes till the head count. You wash up at the cold-water tap, comb your hair, brush your teeth. (If sensitive, you might vary the routine by brushing your teeth first, or putting on your right shoe first, but as you wear into the set ways of an automaton you skip these small variations.)You get into the gray shirt, the gray trousers, the sturdy shoes. You make your bed, tidy up your cubicle, then take your position at the bars of your cell front. After the stand-up count, you hear the lieutenant call: “Ring in outside B!” A dozen cell doors slide open. You step out, march along the tier gallery, descend the circular steel stairway. As you approach the mess hall you remember and quickly button your collar. (This becomes automatic, for an open collar at mess lands you in solitary.) You file past the steam table with a compartmented tray, picking up your breakfast—rolls, dry cereal and milk, coffee, and you know the day is Tuesday: menus are your calendar.Twenty minutes to eat.
