At the far end of the room, a sergeant moves down the aisle, a thick stack of envelopes in his hand. Names are called out in a flat, disinterested tone. One by one, men sit up or step forward to claim their piece of the outside world.

He sits on the edge of the thin mattress, his back to the room. The envelope is plain and white. The handwriting on the front is unmistakable. He doesn’t open it immediately. He just holds it, his thumb brushing over the inked characters of his name.