Al eased himself onto the rough wooden bench, elbowing others aside to give him space to eat. They were being served a burnt slab of what he thought was meat drowned in the piss-colored gravy. The potatoes were lucky—they floated. He ate hunched over his bowl, dirty elbows protecting his food. He forced the food down in silence, knowing it would be some time before he ate again. He had already lost so much weight that his threadbare trousers were held up with string.

“Right, all of you. Dinner’s over... get moving!”

The guard’s brisk demeanor brooked no argument, yet no one at the table moved. The tension was palpable. Al stole a quick glance at his fellow prisoners—his bunkmates: all branded undesirable in the new regime, rounded up like sheep ready to be herded away....

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