Davis sighed, leaning her hip against the heavy metal guard desk. "That's rough. No visitors listed on the manifest for him today, either. I checked the morning roster. His wife called three times this week trying to petition for a special emergency slot, but Captain Vance shot it down. Said rules are rules, no exceptions for non-statutory holidays."
"Vance plays everything by the book even when the book is missing half its pages," Miller muttered. He watched Arthur take his place in the cafeteria line, moving like a phantom among the fifty other men in gray. Arthur didn't grab a tray for breakfast. He simply walked to an empty corner table, sat down, and folded his hands neatly over his lap.
"He's not eating," Davis noted softly. "He hasn't eaten properly in three days, Marcus."
Miller stared at the man. In a facility like this, despair was a contagion. If a man let it take root deep enough, he simply stopped fighting. He became a shell, and once a man became a shell, he rarely made it back to the outside world intact. Miller felt a strange, uncomfortable knot form in his stomach. He had spent two decades convincing himself that the lives of these men were beyond his sphere of influence once they stepped through the gates. But looking at Arthur Pendelton—a man who had spent his life building a home, raising children, living honorably until one tragic oversight destroyed everything—Miller saw something that looked dangerously like his own mirror image. Miller had a daughter of his own. He knew what it meant to miss a milestone.
"Cover the floor for twenty minutes, Davis," Miller said suddenly, setting his coffee cup down on the desk with a sharp thump.
Davis blinked. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to go have a word with the Captain."
"Marcus, don't," Davis warned, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Vance is in a mood today. The regional audit is next week. If you go in there pushing for an inmate's personal birthday visit, he'll write you up for fraternization."