From the deep end of the cell block, the grating sound of casters rolling over rough concrete rises like a bubble through the corridor. As the sound draws closer, I look out the window just in time to see an inmate pass, trundling the very same trolley I got yelled at for sitting on earlier.

The two of us could be twins, dressed as we are in identical gray denim shorts and white undershirts. Unlike me, however, he has also got a matching gray cap on, and a pair of old-fashioned, general-issue glasses, the kind with the thick frames above the eyes that look like heavy eyebrows. Doing an about-face before my cell, he backs the trolley the rest of the way up the cell block.

A muffled announcement comes over the squawk box. Something about meals, if I heard correctly. And now, out in the shallow end of the corridor, muted voices can be heard, followed by a metallic clank, the sloshing of a liquid. The routine is repeated, only closer. A moment later, the inmate with the cap is back, standing before my window, poking the spout of an industrial sized kettle between the bars of the window.

In a reedy voice, he asks for my kettle.

I’ve been wondering what that was for.

I take the kettle from the desk, and place it on the windowsill where he does a cack-handed job filling it, splashing tea all over the ledge, the tatami, and me.

“Thanks,” I say and he continues on down the corridor.

Pouring myself a cup, I take a sip.

“Blech! Mugi cha.”

Barley tea, a favorite with the Japanese during the summer, tastes like mud.