Bobby Walked Along The Corridor Head Hunched And Eyes Pointed

BOBBY walked along the corridor head hunched and eyes pointed at the floor. The hallway was long and the walls were the light canary yellow psychiatrists have determined lends itself to calm, engenders feelings of peace in inmates, patients, and the visitors who force themselves to come spend time with them, in places like this. One percent of the adult population of the United States of America is currently housed in jails and prisons. There is a thriving business, and industry, developing around the private ownership and maintenance of jails in America. The land of the free. Bobby lifted her head, long enough to read the sign on the wall of the intersecting hallway. Radiography, it said, with an arrow pointing left. She turned, walked a way down the hall, and then she entered the door, labeled Director. Behind a desk sat a dour well kept middle age woman, her graying hair pulled into a taut and perfect bun atop her head. Bobby thought, momentarily, the hairdo was meant to raise the woman’s forehead and hide wrinkles that had been caused by years of frowning at people who had walked through that door. Bobby reminded herself she did not want to make snap judgments about people. She was no longer judging, anything. Just being there. Those days were over.