If the Inspector hung his son's drawing on the wall, he wouldn't see all of the height chart. And if he couldn't see all of the height chart, then he couldn't easily check for discrepancies. And if he couldn't easily check for discrepancies, then he could make a mistake and lose part of his pay and perhaps have to watch his son shiver again.
These were the mindless, rounded thoughts he had as he set up for the day under the heavy grey sky, so forlorn he had to switch on the barely lit fluorescents in his booth. He was sure the sun hadn't shone for weeks, or even months. Perhaps years.
Then it would be worth it to have these small rays. He tacked the drawing to the wall tiredly and let it hang, bright-coloured in a world of grey.
And yet the sun had gone in, his review was due soon, and there was still a long line of people's lives to ruin this working day. Even the smallest comforts were gone: Sergiu and his dreary half-smile had been replaced with a new stony-faced guard. Jorji Costava had grinned toothily and slipped him money, dirty but kind, and taken his last leave. Even the booth felt unsafer now, if that was possible, furious rebellion whipping itself into people's chests.
It was the very peak of December and, the Inspector realised, the sun wouldn't shine again in Arstotzka for a long time. There was no longer a place for any of them here.