Cook County Jail was more crowded than any place he had ever seen in Chicago besides the railway station. Marco entered as slowly as possible following a ramrod stiff black man who had turned to glare at him a handful of times during the bus ride. Humiliated beyond words he stripped with the rest of the incoming prisoners and submitted to a search, shower and delousing, the powder thrown at him blinding him. Tears poured from his burning eyes as he stumbled about denied a second visit to the shower. Yelled at by guards he was unable to see through tightly shut eyelids he was shoved into line, squeezing an eye open long enough to find a pile of clothes, an off white sheet, a blue blanket and a thin sponge 'mattress' dumped on the counter before him. 'Get it moving,' snapped the officer behind the counter and a guard shoved him aside.

'Get dressed, asshole!'

Marco wiped his eyes desperately and opened them another crack discovering a threadbare undershirt, a pair of boxers with a large hole in the front, worn socks a revolting shade of grey, a torn t-shirt and an orange jumpsuit. He dressed in silence, marshaled over to a second desk by the same impatient guard. 'Sit.'

He settled at a desk before a bored middle aged woman in a white coat. 'Medical history,' she demanded.

He shrugged. 'I was never sick.'

'Communicable diseases? Psychiatric care?' she enquired in an icy tone.

Marco shook his head in a hurry, his face crimson. 'No.'

She jotted a few notes on the open form on the desk before raising her head to regard him for the first time. 'Why haven't you rolled up your sleeve?'

'Why?' he whispered, terrified he knew the answer. She intends to stick some needle into you, Almeida. They're all the same, these doctors! They refuse to believe you're fine!

'For your blood test, of course!' She pulled a dish forward and removed a syringe while he watched frozen into immobility. Oh no. No no no. 'Your sleeve,' she snapped.

Trembling fingers rolled his jumpsuit as far as his shoulder. The nurse grabbed his arm and forced it onto the desk, glaring at him. She jammed the needle into his arm and he winced in pain, silenced by her scornful look. He remained silent after that, watching while she filled three containers, placing them on the desk before her. 'We need one more,' she said, reaching for an instrument that resembled a pump. Without further elaboration she set to work, pulling the last drops of blood from his vein. 'Alright, in there.' She pointed to a curtained booth and handed him a bottle. 'Hurry up.'

Scarlet faced, he stood within the cubicle staring at the bottle clutched in his fingers, willing himself to think of water. Come on Almeida, she'll send that guard in after you if you don't oblige. Think of water, rain, waterfalls, the lake…

He slunk out quiet as a phantom, laying the bottle on her desk. Once again his arm was grabbed by the hostile guard whose grip squeezed the very spot the nurse had pieced. He hissed in pain, his discomfort ignored by the guard who pushed him along the makeshift corridor and into a brightly lit room with white plastered brick and grey vinyl. 'Place your thumb into the ink,' he instructed.

Marco obeyed; relieved his arm was released, examining his stained thumb in silence. Without protest he stood against the wall for a second photo after which his arms were cuffed before him and he was led to an orange plastic chair. Ordered to sit and wait he allowed his thoughts to wander, picturing Rita beside him in the lecture theatre, her cheerful chatter distracting him from the slightest chance of comprehending anything. Gradually the room filled with the fresh intake while a guard kept a belligerent eye on them from the end of the corridor. His eye roamed over his fellow prisoners carefully, aware of their dislike of being examined.

'What the hell do you think you're staring at, spic?' demanded a tattooed thug. 'You wanna a broken neck?'

Marco shook his head, averting his gaze in a hurry. He had resolved to keep to himself and obey all instructions without attracting extra wrath. A pale boy sat beside him, fingers shaking. 'It's gonna be okay,' he whispered softly, deciding that someone that age should be in school rather than in their present dismal surroundings.

'Alright, get moving, you bunch of losers!'

'Man, you can't be calling us names,' protested the black man, echoed by all the prisoners with the exception of Marco who felt overwhelmed by the courtyard they passed. Entering a second building he found himself surrounded by locked doors.

'What the hell's wrong with you, spic?' snapped the guard, shoving him forward. 'Quit gaping and move it if you know what's good for you! You're down the back!'

The back consisted of one large dormitory style room containing fifty single beds packed so close together a man could barely move between them. Men lay around in various stages of undress, a host of unknown tattoos visible on virtually all of them. Taking care not to allow his eyes to rest on any of them to avoid provoking further wrath he followed the guard to the middle of the room to an unoccupied bed. 'You're down there. See you read the rules on the door!'

Marco laid his rolled up mattress on the iron frame shivering in the poorly heated room. Conversation flowed round him as he surveyed his new 'home.' The guard moved further, assigning two thugs beds and ordering the entire room to 'keep it down.' The noise level subsided temporarily, long enough for the guard's yell 'what the hell's with you asshole?' to reach his ears. He jumped, unsure what he had done to attract attention. To his relief the guard appeared engrossed with shoving the young prisoner forward. 'You put your stuff on that bed, or you get a trip to the hole. It's your choice!'

The teenage boy he spoke to appeared dazed, rooted to the spot in the center of the aisle. Irritated, the guard shoved him against the wall. 'I'm warning you, asshole. You're gonna learn to cooperate in here or you'll find yourself in such shit…'

Marco failed to comprehend what drove him forward; he only knew that he appeared before the guard, reaching past him for the boy's mattress. Silently he laid it on the bed, turning the boy by the shoulder. 'What's your name?' he enquired softly.

The teenager blinked at him, visibly calmed by his presence. 'Raoul James,' he muttered.

'You'll be okay, Raoul,' Marco said soothingly, eyeing a host of bruises on the boy's face. 'Give me your sheet and blanket.' He laid them on the mattress, pulled up by the belligerent guard.

'Your bed is back there, asshole! What the hell do you think you're doing here?'

'Helping Raoul settle in,' Marco answered, returning to the sheet.

A hand with an iron grip grabbed his shirt. 'Stand up when I speak to you! Who the hell asked you to help out, anyway?' He shook Marco roughly. 'Who do you think you are asshole, Mother Teresa?' A snicker followed from the inmates who appeared glued to the spectacle. 'I asked you a question, asshole,' snapped the enraged guard.

Marco stared at him in silence, unsure what answer he was expected to give. 'Cat got your tongue? Or have you forgotten your English? Get back to your bed on the double!'

Chewing his lip he obeyed, praying the boy would pull himself together long enough to make his bed. Shocked at the disrespect accorded a person his parents held in high esteem he unrolled his own mattress placing it over an iron frame, finishing his task within a minute.

'What's your name, asshole?' demanded the guard, returning.

Oh God, won't this bastard ever leave? 'Marco Almeida,' he replied politely.

'Marco Almeida, you'll be in real shit if you don't remember the word 'sir' in a hurry. And that's no way to make a bed.' He reached forward, pulling the sheets, blanket and mattress to the floor. 'Fix it up.' Throwing him a hard stare he turned away, his footsteps echoing through the dormitory.

Shaking his head in irritation Marco picked his things up from the floor and remade his bed feeling the eyes of the remaining 49 occupants of the room boring into his back.

'So Mother Teresa, where you from?' demanded the same prisoner who had glared at him outside, all hostility gone.

'Mexico,' he replied, spreading the blanket over his sheet.

'I knows that. Man, I can hardly understand what yous sayin'' the prisoner continued. 'Whachu in fo'?'

He's got problems understanding you! 'Assault,' Marco replied, folding his arms.

The prisoner looked interested. 'Who you beat up, man? Some XXXXing bitch?'

What? 'I fight with nine men who tried to hurt my girl,' he replied, removing a photo of his parents and depositing it on his pillow.

'Yo man, nine guys. Next thing yo'll be tellin' me, you beat em up!'

'They beat me,' Marco admitted, turning crimson.

'How long they got?' his companion demanded, sitting uninvited on his bed.

'They didn't. They were not charged,' he said sadly, leaning against the wall.

'Yo man, that ain't fair! No XXXXing way that's fair! You alright, Meskin!' He left, clapping Marco on the shoulder so hard he nearly winced.

Lunch was chaotic to the new arrivals who stood in line uncertainly, casting their eyes over a massive dining hall filled with brown tables and plastic chairs. Marco collected his tray from the serving hatch and settled at a vacant table, waiting for the boy to join him. They ate slowly, the pie barely edible as far as he was concerned and the Jell -O's appearance turning his stomach. What is that? He doubted either of his cats would touch it. It just confirms your suspicions, Almeida. Humans will eat anything as long as it's served on a plate!

'Yo, Meskin,' the talkative prisoner greeted, settling beside him. 'Ain't you plannin' on finishing that?' He pointed at the Jell-O.

He wants that green slime! Marco handed it over. 'You can have it.'

'Why don't you wanna have it?' demanded the prisoner, finishing it in two bites.

'Look at the color. Nothing I have ever planted looks that shade of green. This is made in a factory, together with the chemicals we spray on the crops,' he explained.

The entire table stared at him in silence. 'Whassup man? You some foreign professor or something?' someone demanded belligerently.

'No, I am a farmer,' Marco explained.

'You sound like one. Ignorant shithead.'

Marco collected his plate and returned it to the hatch, following a few prisoners outdoors to the yard. Don't take it personally, Almeida! An icy breeze blew through his clothes and he pressed his arms to his sides, shivering. A massive wall encircled the yard, cutting off all view of the outside world. A row of benches lined the wall closest to the door filled with gossiping prisoners. Several men occupied themselves tossing a ball into a basketball hoop. Lifting his head he gazed at the grey sky, struggling against giving way to tears. God help me. I don't know how I can take this.

'Hey, carnal,' a voice called and he turned, recognizing the speaker.

'Bruno Rodriguez,' Marco said, genuinely pleased to see him. 'The Latin King.'

'Sí, carnal. I heard you at the dinner table. You some crazy vato, you know that. Annoy those putos about their meal, they'll kill you. Nobody wants to know about ingredients! They just wanna enjoy it, and you spoilt it for them!'

Marco lowered his eyes. 'I didn't mean…'

'Forget it, carnal! How long you got, anyway?' questioned his new friend.

'Three months.' Marco chewed his lip grimly. 'Just long enough to make certain I fail the entire year.'

'Fail what, carnal?' his friend demanded.

Marco took a deep breath and explained what he studied at university, adding that he was already struggling with the English language without spending a third of the academic year imprisoned. His friend shook his head in sympathy, assured him the world was unfair and introduced him to several other gangsters. 'Remember, carnal, you got a problem, you call us. We'll be seeing you, architect.'

Marco opened his mouth to explain he was technically nowhere near being termed an 'architect' but shut it again. The title sounded too good to be dismissed.

The day passed slowly followed by an entire week of the same monotony. Cook County Jail was so overcrowded he never got a chance to wash the dishes, or work in the laundry, spending the time aimlessly wandering the yard or lying on his back in the dormitory examining every square inch of the ceiling. He was deep in contemplation of the possible depth of the foundations for such a building when footsteps beside his bed startled him. 'Almeida, get up. You got a visitor.'

He stared at the hostile guard in speechless amazement, rolling off his bed in a hurry. Rushing to the bathroom he ran his comb through his hair and splashed water on his face, following the fortunate few through the block and into the admissions block. Being minimum security prisoners they were led into a large hall and seated at tables, ordered to remain in their seats for the duration of the visit. Heart beating rapidly he stared at the door, willing it to open.

Once again the breath caught in his throat. Arms loaded with as many books as she could carry, Rita advanced through the room looking as though she were searching for a seat in a cafeteria. 'Hi, Marco,' she said, throwing her arms about him. 'I missed you so much,' she whispered, her breath warm on his cheek. 'How are you coping?'

Unable to keep from grinning he nodded. 'It's painfully boring, but I'm coping.' I'm cold all the time, sweetheart, their uniforms are barely warm enough to keep out the wind, and I'm always real hungry, but I'm coping. 'I miss you,' he muttered, pulling her closer for another hug.

'Almeida, you've been told the rules. One embrace is permitted at the beginning or conclusion of a visit. Disobey that and you're back in your dorm.'

'I'm sorry sir, it won't happen again,' Marco apologized, eyes lowered.

'Just make certain you remember that!' The guard left, leaving Rita eyeing him in shock.

'What the hell was that about? Who is that bastard? How dare he tell you when to hug me?' she cried indignantly.

'Shh, querida,' he said softly, longing to draw her into his arms. 'This is a jail, remember. I gotta follow their rules if I wanna get a chance to see you.' Gentle brown eyes looked at her, melting her heart. 'And I DO want to see you.' I nearly go crazy thinking about you. 'Rita, your mother would kill me if she knew where you were.'

Rita nodded, not bothering to deny it. 'She would. Lucky for us she doesn't know, right? Look, I bought you all your texts, and I got you some presents too. Every book on the required reading list.'

His breath caught in his throat. 'How did you get the library to lend them?'

'I bought them,' she explained, laying a hand on his arm. 'Shh, Marco, don't even try protesting. You're in here because of me. It's the least I could do.' She lifted the books individually showing him the titles while a lump in his throat threatened to choke him at the thought of owning them. 'I also got you paper and pens, and the list of essays you haven't completed yet, so can write them up. I'll hand them in. And I got someone taking notes that I'll photocopy for you and post to you, so you won't get left behind.' Anxious eyes met his. 'Is there anything else you need, Marco?'

He shook his head bemused. 'No. You thought of everything querida. I might even have a chance after all. Rita, how much did all this cost you?'

Two pairs of equally stubborn brown eyes interlocked. 'You lack manners, my friend. You should know you never ask the price of a gift,' she reminded him, glaring at the guard who sauntered past. 'That guy acts like he owns the place. If he bothers us again I'll remind him he's just a low ranking state employee!'

Marco shook his head alarmed. 'Querida, please don't. Every peacock needs his spot – a place where he can be admired. This guy runs my dorm. I try to keep out of his way. Trust me, it's best this way.' To his dismay the visit ended swiftly and he grasped her in his arms unwilling to let her go and leave him alone in his dismal surroundings. 'Adios, Rita. I love you,' he told her; tilting her face to his as his lips drew hers.

She wiped a few tears away furiously as she was ushered to the door, among the last to leave. Heart aching he summoned the last shreds of his self control and smiled at her, blinking an army of tears away once the door closed behind her. Pull yourself together this instant, Almeida. You've survived a week of imprisonment and you got twelve more to go. Keep your mouth shut and avoid that guy and you'll get to leave real soon. Read your books in the meantime. He picked them up, handing over a note bearing the warden's signature giving him permission to take possession of them.

The following three weeks passed a little faster than the first. Marco spent every waking moment in the library studying his books and writing his essays relatively undisturbed. After the second day the librarian gave him permission to leave his books behind the counter for safe keeping. After the second week he offered to correct the grammatical errors the completed essays were loaded with and allowed him the use of a typewriter to present them more professionally. 'Look, architect,' he said, leaning over the desk, 'it's your lunch time. How often do I have to keep reminding you of that? They won't feed you later if you miss out.'

Marco thanked him and hurried to the mess hall sick with hunger. Stomach growling he wolfed his meals in huge gulps despite his firm resolve to chew his food properly and make it last longer. Sheer hunger beat his best intentions daily. After lunch he wandered into the icy yard for a half an hour walk, returning gladly to the warmth of the library. Face buried in a book he was able to forget he was in fact in a jail.

Rita visited him religiously every week, noting his sharper features in concern. 'Don't they feed you?' she asked, obviously dissatisfied with his assurance that he ate enough. She transferred him a small sum insisting he use it to purchase food items from the commissary. Promising he would repay her for every cent he bought chocolate bars and candy, filling the gaping hole in his stomach. His tolerable existence ended abruptly through no fault of his own in the middle of the fourth week.

He ate the usual bland lunch in the dining hall his mind occupied with the essay he worked on, impervious to the usual threats and insults that flew between tables. Chewing a dry egg he grimaced, brought back to his surroundings by the unexpected taste. What kinda hen would lay that? It must be awfully sick! He pushed it round with his fork unable to decide whether it was safe to eat. 'Yo, architect,' began his black companion. 'I see you looking at that there egg. It's okay, it's just reconstituted. Eat it.'

Reconstituted. Marco whispered the word to himself eating slowly, resolved to look it up in the dictionary the moment he returned to the library in case he would need to explain to the doctor just what he had eaten later in the day. A shout drew his attention. His companion stood beside him, fingers round a white thug's throat. His victim turned an unhealthy shade of red, eyes bulging.

'Hey, stop that. He's had enough,' Marco protested, finishing the last of his potatoes in a hurry. 'Let him go!' he snapped as the prisoner showed no sign of complying. 'Dammit, the guards will come!' A loud whistle interrupted him just as the entire room erupted in chaos, white against black. The SORT team burst in, unmuzzled dogs racing round the dining hall barking furiously.

'On the floor. Hands on your heads. Don't move, assholes.' Dogs raced around the group of prisoners their breaths hot on his neck. Marco lay on the floor motionless, head turned sideways to keep an eye on events without allowing a hint of fear to surface. Keep it together, Almeida. Just ignore the dogs and they'll ignore you. A scream forced his head a little further and he chewed his lip in distress.

'Remove that dog,' he yelled watching an especially savage Alsatian grab Raoul's leg. His words were ignored, the guards gathering amused round the terrified boy. Marco rose, leaping over two prone bodies and grabbed the dog, pulling it from the boy. The incensed animal turned its attack on him. Savage teeth sank into his arm and he yelped, grabbing the animal's front legs. 'Take the dog or I'll kill it. I was trained to do it,' he warned.

The SORT team appeared to tire of the performance. One grabbed the dog and hauled it off him while the rest set about beating the entire room with their nightsticks, singling him out for special attention. Not a few ended up in the infirmary after their punishment, Marco among them receiving a dozen stitches and a tetanus booster before he was released and hauled into a silent waiting room filled with the former occupants of the dining hall. The block supervisor dealt with them in short shift, sentencing one after the other to a term in the hole. Only Marco's case merited special consideration.

'You got anything to say for yourself Almeida?' he inquired, studying his file. 'You disobeyed a direct order to remain on the ground and threatened to kill a police dog!'

'Sir, it was attacking a kid,' Marco protested. 'I didn't hurt that dog, it hurt me!' He pointed to the bandage covering his entire arm below the elbow, to no avail.

'You're in here for assault, as I can see,' the officer said coldly. 'We allowed you to use the library to continue your studies. Doesn't seem to have made any difference. You're a hot tempered troublemaker who needs to be calmed down.'

'Sir, I wasn't even involved in the fight,' Marco argued, his eyes fixed on the words the officer added to his file.

'You got six weeks in the hole. I suggest you use that time to calm down if you wish to avoid deportation!' He nodded at a guard who pulled him up by his cuffs and led him through the courtyard to another block. After a detailed strip search he was led along a corridor and marshaled into a bare cell half the size of his bathroom which contained nothing beyond a sponge mattress thrown in behind him.

He sank onto it disheartened, his eyes requiring a few minutes to adjust to the gloom before he made out a hole in the center of the cell. Keep it together, Almeida, he ordered himself sternly. You got six weeks in here, that's 42 days. You can do that, and then you'll only have another 3 weeks to do before your release. All the pep talk in the world failed to keep his tears at bay as he considered missing Rita's visits.

To his surprise he was released from the hole precisely 42 days later. Humbled, he followed the guard along the same passage, eyes narrowed to tiny slits to avoid the painful light cast by the fluorescent lamps above him. Outside the sun blinded him. Hands cuffed behind him he was unable to cover his face, screwing his eyes tighter as he lowered his head. The ground felt different beneath his feet as he followed the guard, the crunch unfamiliar. Risking a quick glance beneath him he gasped in amazement. White snow covered the concrete yard obscuring the lines drawn for the basketball court, hanging in icicles on the hoop.

It snowed. You missed out on seeing the first flakes hit the ground. This is snow! He followed the guard indoors filled with regret at his lack of opportunity to touch it. Once the guard left he was greeted warmly by several occupants of the dormitory, the Latinos crowding him. 'Hey architect. Hey carnal, how was it? How's your arm?'

Marco found himself grinning stupidly at them, the sight and sound of friendly voices filling his eyes with tears. 'I'm okay,' he muttered, rubbing a hand across his face in irritation. 'It's the light,' he explained hurriedly.

A few of them patted him on the back, settling on his bed. 'We went to the library after we got out,' Bruno explained cheerfully. 'We sent your completed essay to your girl, and we tried to finish that other one you were working on, but it didn't come, carnal. We're sorry.'

Marco stared at their apologetic faces and burst out laughing. 'You're not telling me that's the first time you ever went to a library?' he inquired cautiously.

'Carnal, solitary seems to have done you in! Do I look like a guy who hangs round libraries?' Bruno protested indignantly. 'You wanna do anything now?'

Marco nodded. 'I was going outside to see the snow,' he said, eyes sparkling. 'It's the first time.'

The Latinos followed him over to the yard teasing him mercilessly as he bent to collect a handful. 'Damn it's cold.'

'Right, carnal. It's cold,' Bruno agreed, gathering a handful and slipping it inside his jumpsuit.

Marco gasped, stooping to collect a handful which he threw at his friend, dodging a few more snowballs from the group. Laughing in wonder he made his first snowball, patting it into shape before he hauled it at Bruno, falling flat on his back the next second as he lost his balance on the slippery surface. Raucous laughter greeted his demise as a dozen snowballs landed on him while he held up his hands in mock surrender, tears of mirth in his eyes.

Their childish game was halted abruptly by six guards who ordered them inside, berating them for their dangerous pastime. Once again Marco was singled out for punishment, ordered to follow two guards as the rest of the group was returned to the dormitory. 'You appear to like snow, asshole,' one of them told him. 'That's good as we were looking for someone to clean the path. Take that shovel and clear off all the snow.'

He set to work willingly, amused at the punishment. Familiar with physical work from his earliest infancy the task failed to tire him as he dug into it, loosening it and sending it flying high over his shoulder. Sweat moistened his forehead as he finished, moving to join a uniformed official who beckoned to him. 'Come here, convict. What's your name?'

'Marco Almeida, sir,' he said hesitantly, wondering what he had done to attract the wrath of the official.

'I've never seen anyone clear this path so fast. From now on I expect you to clear it every morning. That's all,' he finished.

The final three weeks of his imprisonment sped past, the morning occupied with clearing the path and the afternoons spent working in the library or writing letters to Rita. The highlight of his day came with the morning mail call where he invariably received a lengthy letter from his dearest friend filled with gossip about their classmates and her family and informing him of just what outings she planned on his release. He read them to himself dozens of times in the evenings before the lights were dimmed lingering on her assurances of her love for him.

She waited for him on the steps of the jail, coat wrapped round her against the bitter cold. Marco took a step towards her, pausing to take her in. 'Marco,' she squealed, rushing into his arms with such force he was knocked a step backwards. 'You're free. Let's get outa here. Pick me up!'

Swallowing tears of joy he lifted her into his arms, twirling her round until the world span alarmingly and he was forced to stop. 'Let's go, querida. I'll tell you all about it,' he promised, carrying her to her Impala. 'You want to get down now, Rita?'

'No,' she admitted, laying her cheek against his shoulder. 'Key's in my pocket. You can drive.'