Zimbobway

The lights snap on at 5:40, same as always, and the anger is already awake before I am. It sits on my chest like it pays rent. I don't argue with it. I just start the ritual. Feet on cold concrete. Ten slow breaths, counting the cracks in the ceiling: there are eleven, so the last one is a bonus. Then the orange I saved from yesterday's tray. I peel it in one long spiral, because if I can keep it unbroken, the day owes me something. Today it holds. The smell fills the cell, bright and loud, and for a second the walls back off. Marcus in the next bunk mutters, "Show-off." I hand him half. He doesn't say thanks. He doesn't have to. I set the spiral on the windowsill to dry. Day one of keeping track. Small things. That's the plan.