A single, bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, its weak yellow light doing little to push back the shadows that cling to the corners. The room is small, maybe ten by ten. The walls are unpainted concrete, except for one.

The black wall. It’s not paint. It’s something else, something thick and sound-absorbing, like the inside of a coffin.

The only furnishings: a thin, stained mattress on the floor, and a toilet in the corner, rust staining the porcelain. And the phone.

A black rotary phone, mounted on the black wall. The cord is cut, dangling uselessly a foot from the receiver.