The Object
Michael Scofield hit the bottom of the platform above him.
"Sucre," the man said, "Hand it over."
"Why should I?" his cell-mate wanted to know.
"Because I gave you something of mine. Now, it's your turn."
"What if I pay you back later?" Sucre asked. "I don't have to right now, right?"
"Su-cre . . . ."
"Ah, man—you know how much trouble my cousin could get in for smuggling it to me? It's not just an average, everyday thing, either—it's got sentimental value, man."
"Sucre," Scofield threatened, "if you don't give it to me, you'll never see your drawers again."
"Alright, I'll give it to you—no need to be so threatening," Sucre muttered. He reached under his mattress and tossed the item down to Michael. "There, happy?"
"Extremely," Michael answered, unwrapping the coveted object. "Hungry?" he mused aloud, "Grab a Snickers." And with that, he took a large bite.
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End.
