Re: Marvel: Cris & Sam
Upstairs, they maneuvered through the bullpen, a collection of desks and computers that were somehow still old, phones tethered by curling cords, men and women tracking through with manila folders and soft voices. Cris gave perfunctory answers to colleagues who stared, to his sergeant. He wasn't even sure what he was saying. And it wasn't until they got past the boxes, the cage, and through the heavy off-blue door to the break-room that he finally stopped, his feet stilling on grimy tiles.—It wasn't a big space. Fluorescent lights that flickered, cinderblocks along two walls in the same teal of the door, and balding bricks along the other two, filled with a rank of bunks, wool blankets, pillows, lockers.
Cris closed the door behind them and kicked a chair in front of it in a horrible scrape of metal. He steered Sam to a lower bunk, rust red blanket, and he sat next to her on it. He didn't loosen his grip. Instead, he looked at the girl, fingers scraping along the bone of her jaw, tapping under her chin.