He grins again. The teeth are his most solid thing, the least damaged. You marvel at them. Perhaps, to him, you look like the boy.

‘From some things,’ he emphasises, leaning back. ‘The fact is, we control our path. We are where we are because of us. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Right?’ He gestures, a throw away flick of his fingers. ‘Can I show you?’

‘Yes,’ you say, the brightness a deepening sensation. You are leaning forward, eager. ‘Yes.’

The boy must wake, and so you wait for the high to pass. This takes many hours. It is full night before he comes back to himself. In the meantime, you and older you talk. He tells you of the house. A blank shared cell, automated wardens, the echo of pain-wracked voices, the sudden violence of patient men. He tells you of the person you will become, your struggles, the darkened twists and barricades that eventually line your path. He tells you of intent, memories of youth that will become nightly recall, the sudden feel of possibility, the whisper of a cellmate in the darkness of lights out, the offer and acceptance of scrap. There is warmth in his voice, you cannot deny. A connection evident in each word. And the bright feeling grows, not just in your gut, but in your whole body, and so you listen to it all, everything.

However, what with his appearance in your tiny room, you have forgotten the urge, although it has not forgotten you. The addiction strikes the old one first, forming slowly so the first signs are hardly noticeable. His eyes begin to drift. He bites his lips. He looks around the room, distracted by the tiniest motes on unseen thermals. Soon, he begins to sweat. All through these symptoms he keeps talking, and you listen, but the distractions grow. He rubs and scratches at his thin arms, causing you to realise where those faded, dark marks came from. He stutters and loses his way, forgets what he is saying, speech slips from his grasp. His eyes grow dull. His forehead glistens, becomes wet. His fingers tremor as if they are diseased. And all the while the old one shoots sideways glances at you, as you bite your own lips, and wipe the sweat from your own head with a trembling hand, trying not to succumb to the itching, both of you, face to face with yet another thing you have successfully avoided for so many years.