CHAPTER 6 SHAWN—COMMISSARY DAY
Two days of silence since the magazine went under the mattress. Jorge hasn't said a word that isn't strictly necessary, and Shawn's stopped trying to fill the gaps. Some silences you don't poke at twice.
Thursday comes anyway. Doesn't care what's broken in a cell.
The CO works down the tier with the cart, calling names off a list, dropping bags through the slot.
Shawn watches from the top bunk, knees drawn in, telling himself he wasn't expecting anything.
Wasn't hoping. Hope's a luxury he stopped affording himself a long time before he ever saw the inside of a cell.
"Delgado."
Jorge doesn't get up right away. Takes his time, like he's got somewhere better to be, and collects a bag heavier than Shawn expected. Ramen, chips, a couple of stamped envelopes, something that might be instant coffee.
No name gets called after that. Cart moves on down the tier.
Shawn keeps his eyes on the ceiling. Doesn't watch Jorge sort through the bag. Doesn't want him to catch anything on his face that he hasn't already given away just by not answering when his own name never comes.
He hears the rustle of the bag anyway. Hears Jorge go still.
"You didn't order anything," Jorge says. Not a question. Just a fact laid flat on the table between them.
"Wasn't gonna."
"Why not?"
Shawn doesn't answer. Counts the ceiling tiles instead, same ones he's counted every day since the transfer, like they'll come up with a different number if he stares hard enough.
"You got no money on your books," Jorge says. Still not a question. "That it."
"Don't need a lecture."
"Wasn't giving one."
Silence again, but different from the last two days' worth. This one's got Jorge in it different, like he's turning something over that he doesn't love the shape of.
Shawn hears him get up. Hears the bag rustle again, closer this time, right at the edge of the bunk.
"Here."
Shawn looks down. Jorge's holding up a couple packs of ramen and a bag of chips, arm extended, face doing nothing Shawn can read.
"I'm good," Shawn says, same three words he used on the commissary form question, same wall going back up out of habit more than pride at this point.
"Wasn't asking."
"Jorge, I don't need—"
"Take it." Harder this time. "It’s better than anything you’ll get off those sorry-ass trays."
Shawn takes it. Doesn't know what else to do with a hand that isn't moving until he does.
"Thanks," he says, and means it more than the word covers.
Jorge doesn't answer. Just climbs back onto his own bunk, back to whatever he was reading before commissary interrupted it, like he didn't just hand over half his week's supplies to a car thief he swore two days ago he wanted nothing to do with.
Shawn holds the ramen like it weighs more than it does. Doesn't say anything else. Doesn't trust his voice to come out steady if he tries.
Down the tier, somebody's arguing with a CO about a missing envelope, voices rising and falling behind steel and concrete. Neither Jorge nor Shawn pays it any attention.
Shawn eats slow that night. Makes it last.
He doesn't know yet what just changed in the six feet between their bunks. Only that something did, and it isn't nothing, and it isn't going to be easy to pretend otherwise come morning.