The broken boy did not leave our room the next day. We did not report him. Someone, who did not live in our room, told on us at breakfast. The guard was furious, and he threw his plate of bread and eggs on the floor. We watched as it smashed, and the food went all over the floor. We would have to clean it later.

‘Where is he?’ The guard had thundered, fists clenching.

‘In our room’ Said one. It would be worse to not have said. We all knew that.

After breakfast, we were rounded up in the gym. The broken boy hadn’t been given breakfast, as a part of punishment, and his face was white, his frail frame swaying slightly, as if he might just fall and never get up again.

The guard made him run 40 laps. We ran 20. Later, we were given ten minutes to play, so we surrounded the boy once again, and fed him little bits of food hidden in our napkins.

‘What is your name?’ We asked.

‘162.’

‘No, your real name’

The boy hesitated, gulping down the last bit of bread. ‘Jackson.’

----------

‘Is it always this bad?’ Jackson asked. We were in our beds now. 7pm.

‘You have to stay out of trouble. Then everything is okay.’ We said.

Jackson shook his head. ‘This is everything but okay.’

We silently agreed, nodding our heads ever so slightly that no one noticed. But we knew everyone was doing it.

This was everything but okay.