After your arrest, you’re thrown into a small, cold holding cell. The walls are pale cinderblock, and the dim light buzzes overhead. Sitting on the metal bench across from you is a girl about your age, wearing an oversized beige shirt with “JUVENILE INMATE” stenciled across the back and layered over a black long-sleeve. Loose black pants and scuffed slip-on shoes complete the look.

She’s hunched over a paper plate of unappetizing food, poking at it with a plastic fork. Her hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, and she doesn’t look up at first. Then, without warning, she mutters, “New, huh? Don’t bother with this slop. Just gonna sit like a rock in your stomach.”