"You said that yesterday. And the day before."
"And I'll say it tomorrow. It's tradition."
Miles is already sitting up on the top bunk. Silent, eyes open, staring at nothing. He doesn't need to be told. He doesn't need anything from anyone, which is why he's the only person in this room I never have to worry about. He climbs down, makeshis bed, not as tightly as mine, but close enough, and starts changing into the uniform. That's Miles. Three years of living together, and I could count our full conversations on one hand.
Harry doesn't move. He sleeps on his stomach with one arm hanging off the top bunk, mouth open. I consider yanking the arm. Instead, I kick the bed frame. The whole bunk shakes. The bottom bunk is empty, waiting for the new kid. That thought makes me sigh, but I ignore it.
"What the fuck," he says, not even opening his eyes.
"Roll call in fifteen."
"I know when roll call is."
"Then get up."
He rolls over, giving me his back. I stare at it for two seconds, then move on. Not worth it. Harry does what Harry wants, and the only reason he hasn't been in serious trouble is because he's rich.
Jack finally peels himself off the mattress. He has a crease from the pillowcase running across his cheek. His brown eyes are still full of sleep. He grins at me, though, because Jack always grins, even at 6 AM, even in this place.
"Morning, boss," he says.
"Don't call me that."
"Morning, sir."
"Don't call me that either."
He laughs. I almost do, but I don't.
We line up outside with the other guys. It's cold, the sky barely gray, and I can see my breath. Griff is already there. He's always already there. His shift starts at 6 and ends God knows when. He says he likes to make sure everybody starts the day just right, every day. Except Sundays. He says he’s got church on Sundays, and then family barbecue with his son. His wife passed away ten years or so ago, but his son always visits. I stand straight, hands behind my back, while the restof us shuffles into formation. Some kids look half-dead. A few are still pulling on sweatshirts, which Griff clocks but doesn't comment on today. He'll remember it, though. He remembers everything.
Roll call. Names barked out, responses mumbled back. Then the moment of silence. I don't pray. I don't think about gratitude or change or whatever they want us to reflect on. I think about my schedule for the day: pharmacology review, two admin reports due, weights then MMA. I organize the hours in my head like blocks.
Breakfast. The cafeteria smells like eggs and burnt toast, same as always. I get my tray, sit at our table. Jack drops in next to me, already talking about some dream he had, something about being chased by a bear through a shopping mall. I half-listen, eating my eggs. Miles sits across from us, silent, eating slowly, eyes on his tray.
Harry shows up late, sliding into the seat at the end like he's arriving at a restaurant. No tray. Harry doesn’t sit with us often but today he has this glint in his eyes. I know he wants to annoy me, particularly, by how he smirks when I look at him.
"Not eating?" Jack asks.
"The eggs taste like someone already digested them," Harry says. He pulls a chocolate bar from his pocket, contraband, technically, since we're not supposed to have outside food, except if you have some sort of official position, like me. Griff often brings stuff for the staff and lets me have some. He unwraps the chocolate in front of everyone, takes a slow bite, and looks at me while he does it. Daring me to say something.
I don't. I take a sip of my coffee. My jaw tightens, but I keep eating.
“You know," Harry says, leaning back, "I heard we're getting a new kid today."
I knew it. I know he’s here with us for a reason.
Jack perks up. "Really? Today?"
"That's what Bill said." Harry takes another bite of his bar. "Another charity case for our fearless leader to babysit."
"You don't know that," I say.
"I know your luck," he smiles. "Parker was fun, wasn't he?"
I set my fork down. Look at him. Hold it for three seconds. He holds it back, still smiling, but I see the flicker, the small calculation behind his eyes, measuring whether he's pushed it too far.
He looks away first. Takes another bite of his bar.
