In the ward, pudgy little T.O. Wilson, a prisoner of his own mind, spent all day, every day, writing “T.O.” in spit on the back of his hand or the floor or wherever. A hopeless lifer, if he still lives, by now he’s surely worn that finger to a nub.

Gary Clifton was forty years a Federal officer, has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and has short fiction pieces published in Spinetingler, Broadkill Review, Yellow Mama, and Dumb Butt Mag.