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prisoners who have no others near them, though it is hard to believe that there are any in those conditions, considering the large number of Bonapartists arriving daily.
Sometimes while we talk, his voice trails off, and there is silence or the sound of his body slumping to the floor. He says it is a condition he has had for most of his life that makes him sporadically fall asleep. His family traveled to every doctor in their town to find a cure, but to no avail. What I have noticed is that it has been getting worse. He often forgets conversations we had and cannot seem to focus. One time, he forgot me entirely. Despite his obviously worsening condition, no guards seem concerned, so I try not to think about it.
By the time lunch rolls around, we have talked about farming and our lives and Napoleon for hours. Lunch is bread with a watery soup, containing a few mystery vegetables bobbing on the sides. The soup softens the bread enough that my jaw can manage it. It still hurts, though, and I feel the faint bruises from when I shouted to the guards to get a doctor for Andres. To distract myself from the quality of the food and the pain in my jaw, I draw on the walls using a new loose stone I found. I draw nothing of form, just a collection of random lines, yet I am satisfied with my work. I call Andres to come see my masterpiece but realize he cannot venture into my cell. My mistake deepens the pit of isolation in my heart. I can count the number of different faces I will see again on my fingers, yet my closest friend will not be one of them.
I climb atop my bed and look out the narrow slit of a window in my room. Above, a wonderful sky and, below, high waves crashing against the sharp, jagged rocks. As I feel the wind in my face, I close my eyes and am briefly
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