Jacobi sits down beside him, close enough to touch, and inspects the wound.

"Glad I didn't know then. I would have been in more trouble," he mutters. "He was an Assistant. And I was a Patient. You can guess which was the warden equivalent. It wasn't me."

He mutes the television but starts the game. "It was built like a preschool hell. Bright colors. Soft surfaces. No privacy. The goal was, well, just to be happy. To pretend to be happy was fine, too."

He rubs the back of his neck, touching the scar. "Brainwashed idiots."