He was thrown into a room with two others: a man and a woman. They did not acknowledge him with more than a tired gaze in his direction. There was little to differentiate between the three besides the fit of their jumpsuits and the severity of grease in their hair. The guard closed the cell. The three points of the triangle only shifted when one needed to use the toilet, but quietly shifted back into symmetry. Exceptions to the rules had never been accepted. The visible drifting dust circuited slowly throughout the room. The spit of a young guard glistened on the edge of the bar, the rest decorating a Pollak on the floor. The priest came in darkness. He crossed himself and prayed that they might find the light. Uniforms came later to usher one prisoner out at a time. Last requests were filled, last morsels of food eaten. Strapping the last man to the chair a guard made the mistake of looking him in the eyes. This was only his third execution. He thought of the monsters that used to hide in his closet. “I’m glad you confessed,” he told the silence, “you were never innocent like you claimed for so long.” The words quickly scurried out of the room with the man. The prisoner refused his right for last words with a sharp sway of his head then he died.