The ‘here’ came from a man standing to his left. Jax snatched a glance, and quickly assembled a profile. Prisoner number 49845 was a senior citizen. At least sixty.

The age of the man told Jax something about the MIN number system – he had found a hack. Learning each man’s number would be a shortcut to establishing how long the inmates had been inside.

‘60077,’ the guard yelled.

Nothing. No reply.

‘60077,’ the guard yelled again, louder this time.

Nothing.

‘Overton,’ the guard yelled instead. ‘Paul Overton.’

‘Yeah,’ came the softly spoken reply.

The entire yard turned to look at this Overton. This inmate that didn’t know his MIN. This inmate who had a number that started with six. An inmate just two admissions fresher than Jax.

‘50182,’ the guard called as the mob returned its focus to the front.

‘Here,’ came the reply.

A low number. A prison veteran. Someone to watch.

‘59999,’ the guard yelled.

‘Yeah.’

Jax snuck a look at the lightly built man with shoulder-length straggly hair who’d replied sheepishly. His number indicated he hadn’t been in prison long either, but his black eye and swollen nose suggested it had been long enough.

‘60079,’ the guard called.

‘Here,’ Jax said, lifting his head only to answer.

The whole yard turned.

JAX did an about-face and powered his way back to his cell the moment roll call was complete. Joining the back of the muster had allowed him to avoid most of the men on the way out. But now he had to brace for breakfast – and finalise his strategy. It would be served in the mess hall, a factory-sized room adjoining the wing. Having attracted the attention of everyone in the yard as new inmate 60079, he knew there would be no hiding at the back of the pack this time.

Jax considered skipping the morning meal altogether, going hungry initially seeming preferable to exposing himself to the mob. But it was only a fleeting thought. He had already been noticed. Not only by Marsh, but now by the rest of the yard. Others would be aware of the MIN sequence. To apex predators especially, the sound of a high number being read out would be like the cry of a wounded animal. Their first chance to size him up would come at breakfast. They would be waiting, they would be watching and they would notice if he did not show. Weak. Scared. Theirs. They wouldn’t even have to circle to confirm that he was ripe for the kill.

Jax walked into the mess hall late but with cool confidence. His tardiness was again tactical. With most already self-served and seated when he walked in, he could choose his table mates. The fact that they were all focused on their food, scoffing and slurping as he strode down the centre of the aisle with his head held high, was a bonus.