There's an incredulous silence from the other cell, followed by a scuffling, and then a disbelieving laugh.

"Are you shitting me?" He scoffs, head rolling on concrete toward the vent like he can stare it into submission. "All this god damn time you've been my bunkie and you didn't bother mentioning you were from god damn Brooklyn?"

Maybe it's that his accent's been schooled out to something neutral, or maybe it's the tendency to keep conversations about what's happening on the inside rather than the painful reminders of the outside. Pasts that got them there in the first place, futures that may never be, the uncertainty of the world. Somehow, someway, it's never come up. "I'm from Red Hook."

And that settles it.

He's a goner.