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Chapter 8 - THE CELLMATE'S TERROR

At the rear table, Marcus slowly slid into the stainless-steel bench across from Samuel. His hands were shaking so violently he couldn't keep his milk carton steady on the table.

He looked at Samuel, his eyes darting from the old man's weathered, calloused hands to his calm, lined face.

"Samuel..." Marcus whispered, his voice cracking with intense anxiety. "Who are you?"

Samuel did not look at Marcus immediately. He kept his eyes fixed on Officer Miller near the wall for three more seconds before slowly turning his gaze back down to his oatmeal. He dipped his spoon into the bowl, taking a small, quiet bite.

"I am your cellmate, Marcus," Samuel replied gently. "And an old man trying to finish his breakfast."

"Don't do that, man! Don't play dumb with me!" Marcus rasped, leaning over the table, his voice dropping into an urgent hush. "I've been sharing a four-by-eight room with you for six months! You told me you were in here for an old tax issue! Tax guys don't drop two-hundred-and-sixty-pound block leaders with a wrist turn!"

Samuel set his spoon down cleanly against the edge of his metal tray. He looked at the young man with a quiet, solemn gravity that made Marcus instantly close his mouth.

"Marcus," Samuel said softly. "The past is a heavy box. Once you open it, you cannot close it again. You are twenty-two years old. You have fourteen months left on a minor non-violent sentence. When you leave this place, you have a life waiting for you."

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes holding Marcus's gaze with absolute intensity.

"Do not concern yourself with things that do not belong to your world," Samuel continued. "Curiosity in a place like this is far more dangerous than Tommy Richardson could ever be."

Marcus swallowed hard, looking down at his own untouched tray. He looked back up, glancing toward the cafeteria wall where Officer Miller was still standing, talking urgently into his radio now.

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"The guard is looking at you, Samuel," Marcus whispered. "He looks like he's seen a ghost."

"He has," Samuel murmured quietly, picking up his paperback book and opening it to a dog-eared page. "And ghosts are best left in the dark."

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