No lights out just yet. Lights on 24/7 when you're in intake. He would still be in intake right now. Lights on all the time. No clock. No sense of time. Police yucking it up outside, gathered around the reception desk, hardee-har-harring at something or other while you're trying to sleep. You get one itchy, flame-retardant blanket, if you're lucky. No socks. Sandals. One size fits all. Sleep on a steel shelf, with nothing but a flimsy, thin bedroll as padding. Waxing the floor outside your cell in the middle of the night, which might as well be day, because the lights are always on and there's no clock and you have no idea what time it is. Breakfast is at 4am. Lunch is at 10am. Dinner at 3. You get tepid water to drink. One styrofoam cup's-worth. That's it. If you're lucky, you get a little baggie of apple juice or something with flavor to drink every now and then. They give you baggies of juice. Juice comes in a little plastic bag. You have to rip it open with a spork. No forks, by the way. Or spoons. Only sporks. You get one roll of toilet paper. If you run out of that one roll, you're up shit creek. They won't give you another one. Say you have a tummy ache. Get sent to medical. You'll live like a king.
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