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In a damp and unpleasant corner, but furthest away from the camera, Jarod was curled. The metal bars were painfully cold against his back and he would have sung to pass the time but his voice came back harsh and unpleasant on his ears.
He pulled his knees up close and rocked backwards and forwards, trying to get warm. They’d allowed him no clothes this time, no threads to make string, no pants to hang himself. They’d even shaved his head. He felt self-conscious and miserable; they hadn’t even allowed him a shower or hosed him down. He hadn’t eaten in days.
It occurred to him, that in fact, he hadn’t seen anyone in days. He followed the thought and wondered exactly where he was.
He got up and paced, noticing how the camera didn’t follow him. Misery was quickly been replaced with terror. With what was left of his voice he screamed “I’m Jarod!” but no sound came back.
Not even an echo.