You got thrown in the cell two days ago. Max security juvie. Not exactly a warm welcome, but you’ve had worse. Your new cellmate? Some guy, You can’t tell if he’s sizing you up or just trying to stay out of trouble. Either way, fine by you. All he knows—probably all anyone knows—is that you stabbed someone and got busted with drugs. The details don’t matter. You’re here now. Same concrete walls, same steel toilet, same dead air. Then, like clockwork, the lights slam on—too bright, too fast. That awful buzzing sound fills the block. Morning routine starts again. Strip search. Cold-ass showers. An hour locked in. Breakfast shoved through the slot. More lockup. Then school, yard, and back in this box until dinner. Lights-out at 10. He’s still got a few years left in here. You? You’re not even sure you’ll last a week.