it feels overconfident to put a CW on this chapter, because it implies i think im 100% accurate with my content. but for your convenience and peace of mind...
cw: mild sexual harassment, OCD flare-up
🃒
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
🃒
PROGRAM ROOM 104 was one of six rooms in the vocational shop of Fox River. Positioned just behind the Prison Industries storage closet, it was a long, fat, one-story building with a brick-red roof and decorative, dying trees dotting the perimeter. Michael knew this, of course, from the blueprints, just like he knew that the prison had recently renovated this place — along with many others — due to asbestos in the paint.
The room was clean as a whistle, with sixteen seats to four long tables, not unlike a classroom. There was a storage closet in the back corner with a glass window, and he could make out tools and other building supplies neatly-organized behind the frosted glass.
Of the sixteen seats, only five were filled, each man trying to distance themselves as much as possible from the other. Six guards were stationed, three at each wall, looking bored. Michael checked the time on the clock at the back of the room — it was 1:59.
He took a seat in the second row, right behind a blond, spiky-haired inmate with various mismatched tattoos dotting his lower arms and the letters EWMN on each knuckle of his right hand, and 1488 on each of his left. He was drumming his fingers impatiently on the table, glancing around irritatedly.
The other four men in the room were beside or behind Michael, and he gave them a quick glance, masking it by checking the clock again — 2:00 on the dot. Three of them wore expressions of impatience, the final one looked ashamed, and that told Michael all he needed to know.
He swung forward again just as the door opened, and Fowler walked in with a manila folder in one hand and chalk in the other. She was dressed in another neutral-colored polo with black slacks, and her dark hair was pulled back in a braid. She gave the room a cursory glance and made a pleasantly surprised face, putting her stuff down on the front desk before turning to face them again.
"Good turnout," she said to no one in particular. Then she faced one of the guards. "You guys can wait outside, okay?"
Michael couldn't help but frown, and the other COs exchanged knowing glances before nodding and filing out the door. Once they were gone, the man in the front row shifted in his seat, legs spreading and leaning to one side. As he moved, Michael caught the edge of a swastika over a clover on his upper shoulder. Michael couldn't see his face, but he assumed the man was wearing an expression befitting of his station: a leering smile.
If she noticed the sudden change in his behavior, she didn't show it. "Alright, everyone." She turned around to write something on the board, and the man let out a low whistle, slapping the table with his hand. Fowler kept writing like nothing happened, and tapped the board once she was done.
