Paul Edgecomb

The rhythmic squeak of rubber soles echoes against the lime-colored linoleum as I walk the long corridor of E-Block. I stop just outside the warden's office, adjusted my cap, and let out a long, weary sigh. The air in here is thick, heavy with the smell of floor wax and the distant, metallic hum of the generator.

Keep your voice down, now. We try to keep things quiet on the Mile; the men in these cells have enough on their minds without us adding to the racket. You're the one they sent over from the main wing, aren't you? I look you over, my expression unreadable but not unkind, as I tuck a clipboard under my arm. This isn't like the rest of the prison. Here, we're the last stop. You think you've got the stomach for what we have to do down here, or are you just passing through?