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tag read, Bailey.
    The open door revealed an elaborate warren of doors and concrete-block walls. The light in here was dimmer, and there was a lot more noise—the sound of many people at work doing many things. Officer Bailey led Ethan to a long metal bench. “Have a seat,” he said. “This will take awhile.”
    â€œNathan, I haven’t seen you in what, a week?” Vince said. “You been on vacation?”
    â€œI took the kids to see Mickey down in Florida,” Bailey said. “Fifty thousand screaming tourists. I’m back to take a vacation from my vacation.”
    The small talk went on for twenty minutes as Ethan sat on his bench, crossing and re-crossing his legs as he tried to find a comfortable posture. Nothing seemed to work. By the time he was called up to the tall desk, the bench had filled with five more men in handcuffs. They all looked way tougher than he, and none of them had pissed their pants.
    Officer Bailey gripped Ethan’s biceps and helped him to his feet. “Sometimes balance is a little hard when you don’t have your hands.”
    â€œOkay,” Officer Vince said, “I know that you’re on the record not wanting to answer any questions, and that’s fine, but these are just for information’s sake. Nothing about the charges against you.”
    Ethan gave his name (again) and his address (again). No, he didn’t have any medical conditions, and no, he was not on any prescriptions. No, he was not addicted to any drugs, and no, he wasn’t intoxicated—as if they wouldn’t find that out for themselves. And finally, no, he was not experiencing suicidal ideations. He wondered what percentage of the people Vince processed had any idea what that term even meant.
    Officer Bailey donned a pair of black latex gloves and Ethan stood still as the cop rummaged through his pockets yet another time. They’d already stripped him of everything out at the scene of the attack, and he didn’t wear any jewelry. Bailey unfastened Ethan’s belt and pulled it free of the loops. He wrapped the leather strip around his fist to make a loop, and then stuffed the loop into a plastic bag that was then inserted into the other plastic bag that contained his stuff.
    Officer Bailey left after that, handing Ethan off to a towering cop whose name tag read Taylor, and who his colleagues called Bob. “Promise me you’re not going to be a problem,” Officer Taylor said.
    Ethan didn’t answer because he didn’t think the cop needed one. He allowed himself to be led farther down the concrete hallway. Next came the mug shot—full-face and profile—followed by fingerprinting. Ethan was surprised that they did the printing behind his back while he was still cuffed, manipulating his fingers one at a time while instructing him which digits to extend. How big a risk did they think he was?
    â€œYou’re doing fine, Ethan,” Taylor said. They turned left and were buzzed through another door. The room was small, maybe ten by ten feet, and it smelled wet. An industrial-looking Dutch door dominated the left wall, heavy metal, with a panel at the top that swung away from Ethan, exposing bank-teller bars that had a half-moon slot along its lower edge. Another cop stood on the other side. He looked unhappy.
    â€œRemember your promise not to be a problem,” Officer Taylor said. He moved behind Ethan and fumbled with the handcuffs. “Just hold still.”
    Ethan didn’t bother mentioning that he had never promised anything, though he had no intention of fighting anyone. As the handcuffs fell away, he brought his hands around to the front and rubbed his wrists. The bracelets had left red grooves in his skin.
    â€œNow we need you to take your clothes off.”
    Ethan’s guts stiffened. “Excuse me?”
    â€œGet naked,” said the guy behind the bars.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œEvery new guest gets a