Kelly opened one eye first and then the other, but slowly; his head felt swollen on the inside and even the flesh behind his eye sockets was sore. He felt cool concrete beneath him and sore muscles from sleep without comfort. Kelly was on the floor. His head lay half beneath the lower of two bunks. The air smelled heavily of chlorine, as if Kelly were in the dressing room at a YMCA, underlaid with perspiration and urine. These were the fear smells, the ones that could not be blanked out by any other. Kelly reeked of them. He moved. Sevilla’s handcuffs were gone and his hands were free. Kelly rolled onto his back, touched the sore places on his sides and chest and face. His nose was prone to breakage, but this time it was only swollen. Sitting up was hard. Kelly used the wall to help himself into a corner beside a toilet without a seat or lid. The cell was six-by-six, the cinder blocks whitewashed and chipped and riddled with graffiti.
