He ripped at the padding, ignoring the pain that stung his fingertips. He needed to burn something, badly.

The padding finally tore, opening up a tiny hole. He squeezed his fingers in and pulled out a whole stream of cotton. He struck gold. Oh, the joy.

He could barely contain his excitement as he dipped the cotton in kerosene. He tugged it out, the kerosene sipping out and leaking onto the padding. He reached out for the lighter he stashed from one of the officers.

The flame flickered as he flicked the metal wheel, its flame burning orange with blue tinges at the sides. He could set this cell on fire and escape. All in that single moment with a split-second decision.

Can I stop being a good boy?