They say I look good for 35.

I'm 31.

Still, I know I've been here a while. I have injection scars on both arms. I'm fatter too.
Dave came to see me today. He's still my best mate. I couldn't help myself - I had to ask again what happened, even though it meant loss of privileges. They had him out of the booth before I'd even finished my sentence. Poor Dave. He only ever gave away that one morsel when he first saw me here. He was rattled and I was together enough to exploit that. I've never hurt a living creature in my life. If there's only one thing I know for sure, I never touched Skat. I saw the look in Dave's eyes though. He believes them, whatever they told him. The Americans. So why does he keep visiting?

Maybe he feels guilty about living in my old house. It's all open plan now, apparently. The owner gutted it after the fire. The floor's been carpeted. Whacko; it'll be warmer in winter.
I get 'New Scientist' in here with the staples removed. The other month they ran a Mars special. I leafed through it till Mills snatched it from me to make hats. I didn't bother chasing him. I'd seen all the pictures before.

I look forward to bath time. They let us lie as long as we want. Until the water gets cold if we like. I enjoy floating and staring at the ceiling. Just the other week, I noticed patterns in the flaking paint above me. I thought I saw a huge blueprint, covering the whole room. I have a theory, but the ceiling's too high for me to test it. I'm going to have to wait until one of the paint flakes falls. This will be difficult, since I only have a bath every third day. So I've decided to map every flake. I'm going to start soon. That way, I'll see if any are missing each time I come here. If I wait long enough and no paint flakes fall, I'll know they're not really paint flakes. Then I'll find a way, somehow, to get up to that ceiling and find out what's really going on in this joint.

The End.