The Tandem Program
Venita Louise
The glare from the
florescent lighting stitched Billy Dolan’s eyes into
defensive slits. He was, hungry, tired and hampered by
ankle irons. With labored shuffling, the soft rubber sole
of his shoe caught on the waxed linoleum tile and he
suddenly fell forward. The guard’s grip on his arms made
him wince. It hurt like hell, but he refused to call out.
Excerpt
Men in suits,
expressionless, rigid and overly scented, occupied two of
the chairs on one side of a long table. An empty chair sat
on the other. The guards thrust Dolan into the chair meant
for him, causing it to scrape several inches across the
floor with a teeth-aching squeal.
Dolan tried to take in as much of the room as he could in
a single scan. Drab, grimy white walls and nothing hung on
them to cover the web of cracks crawling from each corner.
The floor was covered in the same dappled linoleum tile
that he got a good look at in the hall. And now, even with
the sunlight shining in from the windows, the room felt
dark.
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