“What is truth?” I said. “Is it the shallow assurance that something literally took place, or is it about something far deeper, something that is profoundly true—on all levels? Not just the literal one. It’s like poetry.”

His face lit up, his eyes brightening. “Religion as poetry,” he said. “I like that.”

“Why do you think sacred texts are filled with so much figurative language?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding his head and smiling. He got it. Then, suddenly, he began to frown. “But so many people just take it literally. They’re missing so much.”

“It’s how they can believe they have truth and everybody else has superstition.”

He looked down and shook his head.

At the end of the food service building, a rust-and-grime-covered green dumpster sat reeking of sour milk and rotting vegetables. It reminded me of grammar school. That same pungent smell had floated around the rear of the lunchroom like a tormented apparition—presumably one that died of food poisoning. From somewhere beneath the violated metal mass bled a thin milky substance, as if from an open wound.

Dexter and I both carefully stepped over the sludge that seeped across the width of the asphalt street. It puddled like some primordial pool that would soon spawn a horrific new species.

He started to say something, but hesitated, and I could tell he wanted to say more.

“What is it?” I asked.

He smiled. “Is it wrong? I mean does...,” he began, then trailed off.

“Just spit it out,” I said, “I can guarantee I’ve heard it before.”

“Does the Bible say masturbation’s a sin?” he asked quickly without looking at me. “All the brothers on the compound say it does. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a member of the gun club.”

I smiled at Dexter’s reference to the PCI Gun Club. Gunners were inmates, usually sex offenders, who masturbated while looking at female officers in the dorms. They’d simply whip it out and get busy regardless of who was around. Each day the gun club received new members. It was getting out of hand (so to speak) and I felt sorry for the female officers who had to endure such violations.

“Actually, the Bible doesn’t say anything about masturbation,” I said, adding, “unless you count, ‘Whatever you find to do with your hand, verily I say, do it with all your might.’”

He looked perplexed.

I smiled. “It’s a joke. The Bible doesn’t say anything about it.”

“What about the dude in Genesis they keep talking about? What’s his name?”

I smiled. “Onan?”

“Yeah?”

“Not the same thing,” I said.

The sounds of young men playing drifted over from the rec yard, mixing with gunshots from the firing range, creating an auditory paradox that otherwise only existed in war and inner-city housing projects.

“So it’s not a sin?”

I shrugged. “I guess it can be.”