“Let me correct myself, because you’d like to get out, right?” The Professor gazed at him seriously. “And according to us, this morning your friends on the outside were supposed to bring you some presents. Where are they?”

“Today they didn’t bring me anything, I swear it. Marini was in the visiting room. And when Marini’s around . . . you know it yourself, not a fucking thing gets through! I’m not lying, Professor. I’m not—”

Oluwafeme was rapid and precise. A cross delivered with all the mass of his shoulder, connecting to both nose and lip. A sharp blow, practically invisible given the sheer speed of execution—that is if it hadn’t been for the blood that gushed out of Omar’s lips and nose. The young man’s hands flew up to his face. In his eyes hundreds of lights flashed and popped, and a dull pain drilled into his skull. His legs gave way beneath him, but it was impossible to drop to the ground. Oluwafeme’s other hand held him up, on his feet, pinned to the wall.

“But we don’t believe you! And when we don’t believe someone, what happens?”

Four-Eyes, the brains of the group, shook his head. “I don’t know what happens to us. But the person we don’t believe generally dies.” He grabbed Omar’s chin and glared into the eyes that Omar could barely keep open. “Do you understand what I just said? You’ll die. Let me ask you one more time: Where is the shit?”

Omar couldn’t breathe. He bowed his head and spat a clump of blood to the ground; then he looked up again. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear . . .” And he shot a glance over the right shoulder of the black man, who had his fist poised for another punch; now he could see his friend Tarek in the courtyard trying to find him. He needed to let himself be seen, or else he was a dead man. “Professo’, which part of what I said didn’t you understand? I don’t have a fucking thing!”