“At Greensville, it will all be computerized, ” Roberts added.

Inside a wooden cupboard were the helmet, leg piece, and two thick cables, which, he explained as he held them up, “attach to the wing nuts above and to one side of the chair, and then to this wing nut on top of the helmet and the one here on the leg piece.”

He did this without effort, adding, “Just like hooking up a VCR” The helmet and leg piece were copper riddled with holes, through which cotton string was woven to secure the sponge lining inside. The helmet was surprisingly light, a patina of green tarnish at the edges of the connecting plates. I could not imagine having such a thing placed on top of my head. The black leather mask was nothing more than a wide, crude belt that buckled behind the inmate’s head, a small triangle cut in it for the nose. It could have been on display in the Tower of London and I would not have questioned its authenticity.

We passed a transformer with coils leading to the ceiling, and Roberts unlocked another door. We stepped inside another room.

“This is the cooling room,” he said. “We wheeled Waddell in here and transferred him to this table.”

It was steel, rust showing at the joints.

“We let him cool down for ten minutes, put sandbags on his leg. That’s them right there.”

The sandbags were stacked on the floor at the foot of the table.

“Ten pounds each. Call it a knee-jerk reaction; but the leg’s severely bent. The sandbags straighten it out. And if the burns are bad, like Waddell’s were, we dress them with gauze. All done, and we put Waddell back on the stretcher and carried him out the same way you came in. Only we didn’t bother with the stairs. No point in anybody getting a hernia. We used the food elevator and carried him out the front door, and loaded him in the ambulance. Then we hauled him into your place, just like we always do after our children ride the Sparky.”

Heavy doors slammed. Keys jangled. Locks clicked. Roberts continued talking boisterously as he led us back to the lobby. I barely listened and Marino did not say a word. Sleet mixed with rain beaded grass and walls with ice. The sidewalk was wet, the cold penetrating. I felt queasy. I was desperate to take a long, hot shower and change my clothes.

“Lowlifes like Roberts are just one level above the inmates,” Marino said as he started the car. “In fact, some of them aren’t any better than the drones they lock up.”

Moments later he stopped at a red light. Drops of water on the windshield shimmered like blood, were wiped away and replaced by a thousand more. Ice coated trees like glass.

“You got time for me to show you something?” Marino wiped condensation off the windshield with his coat sleeve.

“Depending on how important it is, I suppose I could make time.”