Rudy lifted his emaciated frame off his bunk. Thieving, fighting, being a general, all-around pain in the ass: the man was in jail so often he actually had a favorite cell. This time the charge was drunk and disorderly. With a lurid snort he excavated a wad of phlegm, hawked it into the bucket that served as a toilet, and shuffled to the bars, beltless pants hoisted in his fist. Maybe I should let him keep his belt next time, Eustace thought. The man might do us all a favor and hang himself. Eustace slid the plate through the slot.

“That’s it? Biscuits and a potato?”

“What do you want? It’s March.”

“The service isn’t what it used to be around this place.”

“So stay out of trouble for once.”

Rudy sat on the bunk and took a bite of one of the biscuits. The man’s teeth were disgusting, brown and wobbly-looking, though Eustace was hardly one to talk. Crumbs spurted from his mouth as he spoke. “When’s Abel coming?”

Abel was the judge. “How should I know?”

“I need a clean bucket, too.”

Eustace was halfway down the hall.

“I’m serious!” Rudy yelled. “It stinks in here!”

Eustace returned to the front and sat behind his desk. Fry was wiping down his revolver, something he did about ten times a day. The thing was like his pet. “What’s his problem?”

“Didn’t care much for the cuisine.”

Fry frowned with contempt. “He should be grateful. I didn’t get much more than that myself.” He stopped and sniffed the air. “Jesus, what’s that smell?”

“Hey, assholes,” Rudy yelled from the back, “got a present for you!”

Rudy was standing in his cell holding the now-empty bucket with a triumphant look on his face. Shit and piss were running down the hallway in a brown river.

“This is what I think of your fucking potato.”

“Goddamnit,” Fry yelled, “you’re cleaning this up!”

Eustace turned to his deputy. “Hand me the key.”

Fry unhooked the ring from his belt and passed it to Eustace. “I mean it, Rudy.” He jabbed a finger in the air. “You’re in a heap of trouble, my friend.”

Eustace unlocked the door, stepped into the cell, closed the door behind himself, reached with the keys back through the bars, and locked the door again. Then he deposited the ring deep in his pocket.

“What the hell is this?” Rudy asked.

“Gordon?” Fry looked at him cautiously. “What are you doing?”

“Just give me a sec.”

Eustace drew his revolver, spun it around in his hand, and slapped the butt across Rudy’s face. The man stumbled backward and toppled to the floor.

“Are you out of your mind?” Rudy scrabbled backward until he was against the wall of the cell. He worked his tongue around and spat a bloodied tooth into his palm. He held it up by its long, rotten root. “Look at this! How am I supposed to eat now?”

“I doubt you’ll miss it much.”

“You had that coming, you piece of shit,” Fry said. “Come on, Gordo, let’s get this asshole a mop. I think he’s learned his lesson.”

Eustace didn’t think so. Teach the man a lesson—what did that actually mean? He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but it was coming to him. Rudy was holding out his tooth with a look of righteous indignation on his face. The sight of it was thoroughly disgusting; it seemed to encapsulate everything wrong with Eustace’s life. He reholstered his gun, letting Rudy think the worst was over, then hauled him to his feet and slammed his face against the wall. A damp crunch, like a fat cockroach popping underfoot: Rudy released a howl of pain.

“Gordon, seriously,” Fry said. “Time to open that door.”

Eustace wasn’t angry. Anger had left him, years ago. What he felt was relief. He hurled the man across the cell and got to work: his fists, the butt of the revolver, the points of his boots. Fry’s pleas for him to stop barely registered in his consciousness. Something had come uncorked inside him, and it was elating, like riding a horse at full gallop. Rudy was lying on the floor, his face protectively buried in his arms. You pathetic excuse for a human being. You worthless waste of skin. You are everything that’s wrong with this place, and I am going to make you know it.

He was in the process of lifting Rudy by his collar to slam his head against the edge of the bunk—what a satisfying crack that was going to make—when a key turned in the lock and Fry grabbed him from behind. Eustace connected with an elbow to Fry’s midriff, knocking him away, and wrapped Rudy’s neck in the crook of his arm. The man was like a big rag doll, a fleshy sack of loosely organized parts. He tightened his biceps against Rudy’s windpipe and shoved his knee into his back for leverage. One hard yank and that would be the end of him.

Then: snowflakes. Fry was standing over him, heaving for breath, holding the fire poker he’d just used on Eustace’s head.

“Jesus, Gordo. What the hell was that?”

Eustace blinked his eyes; the snowflakes winked out one by one. His head felt like a split log; he was a little sick to his stomach, too.

“Got a little carried away, I guess.”

“It wasn’t like the guy didn’t deserve it, but what the fuck.”

Eustace turned his head to get a look at the situation. Rudy was curled into a fetal ball with his hands jammed between his legs. His face looked like raw meat.