It was different inside. Mostly he did the same things - he ate when they fed him; he exercised his limbs when they brought him out to the yard; he watched TV, sometimes, when they let him - but that was where the resemblance ended. Outside, he had a house, a family, a dog, things that were identifiably his and no one else’s; inside, he had only poorly defined rules. Eat when you’re supposed to, but not before. Socialize with other inmates, but only in designated areas. Exercise in the yard, but don’t get too close to the chain-link fence. The fence in particular frustrated him. Often he would peer through its forest-green lattice - a silly color choice, he thought, as if anyone would confuse it with a tree - at the parking lot beyond, where shining cars of green and blue, big and small, boxy and sleek, waited to be driven away. This wasn’t for him, he decided. He wanted out.

Daniel used to wonder what he’d done to deserve this imprisonment - there had been no trial, no verdict - but one day, while landscaping a muddy corner of the exercise yard (work he was not, he noted, fairly compensated for) he figured it out. It was something he had said. A fuzzy image in his memory briefly focused: outside, months ago, in the living room of his own house, his father’s voice on the telephone. Daniel had opened his mouth and uttered something… dangerous, he guessed, the slimy tendril of a monster residing beneath his consciousness. He could no longer remember it himself, but his family’s reaction was indication enough. They had screamed, phoned the authorities, and recorded him with a video camera. The evidence was, apparently, damning.

Of course, he wasn’t alone on the inside. The other prisoners, as best as he could tell, were there for similar reasons, and they had developed ways to pass the time. Some days they sculpted, shaping impressive monuments of multi-colored plastic. On others they made music by singing or playing instruments furnished by the warden (she wasn’t all bad, Daniel supposed). In a secret language, they even traded (despite the prison’s heavy-handed communism, which outlawed free enterprise) on a black market using a currency of cookies and pebbles.

Some of the others also, Daniel noticed, shared his weird condition. The institutionalized ones were almost proud of it; they blabbed on and on, spewing strange syllables across the room. Worse still, he at times felt in himself a growing comprehension whenever they spoke, as if they were transmitting thoughts to him telepathically. He feigned ignorance at first, but, after an incident involving an amazingly punctual diaper change, he saw it for what it was: mind control.

One day, Daniel decided to test it for himself on the warden, in a small way, and gauge her response. He approached her in the kitchen, slowly, and nudged her leg. She knelt down - wait, he thought, wait for the right moment - to just above his height, her torso nearly horizontal. Staring straight into her blue, eye-shadowed eyes, he verbalized his intention.

“Jooz.”

Her head turned slightly, bringing an ear closer to him.

“Jooz,” he repeated.

“Juice?” She smiled. “Baby’s thirsty? Hang on, I’ll get you some juice.”

It worked. She must be weak-minded, he thought. She returned and handed him a bottle filled something yellow and sweet. “Now what do you say?” she said.

A chilled ball of terror floated up his abdomen. It was a trap. She had the gift, too, but her ability was far more powerful than his. He sucked on the bottle’s nipple, buying time. What could he do? Fight back? Pretend it didn’t happen? Play along, he decided. That was the only way.

“Fankoo.”

“That’s right, Daniel. Good boy,” she said. “And it’s almost four o’clock - your mom will be here soon! Are you excited?”

Daniel nodded and walked away before she could make him do anything else. Tomorrow he would be back, and he could try again. Maybe he could use his power on the others. One could create a distraction, while two of the older ones could boost him, hands interlaced like stirrups, over the fence.