My knife was clean. I never stabbed Metro. I was caught in it as much as he was. I never stabbed him, really. Really. But that’s what Maxie is saying, and Lou and Cuddles too. Maybe they’ll believe me ’cause I’m youngest. The public defender didn’t listen to me. “They got your confession,” he said. “You might as well come clean.” Come clean, come clean. Shit. Everybody wants you to come clean like you nothing but shit anyway. My knife dropped on the ground. I went back to see him. I went back to touch him, like he wanted to be touched. I was there, wasn’t I? Inside his shape? I was inside the print of his hands and feet and head. I was lying inside all of him. And the cold in that chalk shape was mine.

After they beat me I got put in a separate cell. The cops told me that I was going to a juvenile home upstate until the trial date. I don’t know what’s going to happen to the others. I don’t give a fuck. Cuddles wanted it big. Let him have it big. I only signed because they said it would be easier if I went along with the cops and told what happened, told what I did and what they did, which is all I said. What I didn’t expect was to see it all typed out on a page all neat and clean like a government paper for somebody’s file. Mine. And I didn’t expect to be locked up this long either, just ’cause we couldn’t pay bail. The doctor who talked to me said they’d transfer me upstate, but there wasn’t no room there just yet, no openings. I’d have to stay put for a little longer until something could be done. Something arranged. We’re in separate cells. I don’t know nothing about the others. We met together only once after they beat me. The guard was watching them differently that time.

What did I expect out of those bums, anyway? What did I expect out of the cops and guards? Wasn’t I looking on when they stabbed Metro? Didn’t I know it was going to end up like it did? How the hell could I blame anyone? I had red on myself now. Red eyes. Swollen red lips. A head that wouldn’t stop pounding at the slightest footsteps. And all you could hear is feet dragging on metal. My feet dragged too. But inside the metal catwalk the floor is concrete. Walls are cinder blocks stacked high and glazed with gray paint. Each one measures twelve inches by six inches. And there are thirty blocks on the wall below the metal bars and window. One window. I’ve seen some cells that are just metal and air. Then some with walled metal slats for ventilation. Space for names and fingers, maybe. Nothing else. And one square lock to remind you how far the space goes out, how far you can walk forward without coming back, then walk back again. One five-step run from locked bars to back window. Then an iron-pole bed, an open toilet, and me. Five steps this way, five steps that way. Step-touch, step-touch, step-touch back. And the pacing, the pacing back and forth, back and forth inside my head.