Gerald and Arthur visited in baritones.
Mourning Dove lay on his back with his hands over his stomach.
Mendez lay on his stomach under the cover, snoring.
"Niiight, Martin," he sang in a high voice.
"Shut the f*ck up Ford," said Pontiac. Ford shot back to his bed and pulled the covers up.
At one a.m. the night guard clicked down the hall. His flashlight moved with his right leg. He talked into his walkie-talkie, not bothering to be quiet for the sleeping prisoners. The doors of the sally port clanged open.
The guard stalked in, click, click, down the row, shining a light into each cell, counting to himself.
"Morning, Gary," said Pontiac.
"Mornin'," said the guard, walking past.
He strode back without speaking. Pontiac sat on the top bunk, his big bare feet hanging over the side. He rolled another cigarette. Gary glanced at Mumford doing pushups.
The doors clanged shut. Gary and Pontiac repeated the scene at two and three o'clock. At the four o'clock count Pontiac was asleep.
As the night guard checked the blocks each hour and talked to the street cops who brought in prisoners and the woman who worked the front desk, while the lights at the corner clicked from green to yellow to red and the kids drove past - the men of D Block dreamed like summer campers.
They dreamed of being twenty feet to the north.
What could that be like? They had never been there. They had each been born in jail. They had never seen their mothers or held their children. They had always known Burton, always known his name. He had always been there in the morning, telling them when to eat, to read, to watch television.
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