Last night, I was outside, and one guy from my unit wasn't in the best of moods. He'd gotten news. As a result, here I saw a young man with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, face lit up orange except for the hollows where eyes should be, which instead were like two windows into an abyss. The orange light of course was from the fire he was feeding with letters and pictures. Now and then one would make a loud pop and sparks and embers would leap from the miniature break-up pyre. I BSed with him for a bit, and so did my fellow arrestee, and we both concluded that he'll be fine, and we'll chill with him whenever need be.
I didn't offer to share a few brews with him though.
Speaking of which, the Article 15 is still lurking in a stack of paperwork. That's all right though, I'll do my time in Shawshank. After all, I cannot be defeated. I'm ready to mop floors.