This isn't the worst home I've ever had. Nick could still remember some of the places he'd been forced to live when he was young. And this was his own space, without anyone to bother him.
The isolation cell had no window and no sunlight. The only illumination came from a ceiling fixture that was too high to reach. A spooky silence filled the space. Nick hugged himself for a few minutes as he sat on the bed. Then he resumed his attempts to meditate.
He sat and he sat. Meditation wasn't any easier in this tiny space. But at least he didn't have to worry about a cellmate. A non-stop stream of thoughts echoed in the quiet cell. Those thoughts were his only companions here. Thoughts about his life so far, both good and bad. And thoughts about Constance Westerley, a woman so beautiful that it made him ache. Her delicate hands, her beautiful face, her long graceful neck, and her irresistible smile. Little flashes of her appeared in his thoughts.
Too bad he was in jail. But even if he wasn't, could he really pursue her? A Westerley? He doubted it. But one thing was certain: his life had changed drastically in the past few weeks, so he no longer could say for sure what was possible anymore.
Nick kept forcing thoughts from his mind, trying to focus on the present moment. Sometimes he could hold the thoughts at bay for a while, but they always came flooding back in. With no daylight, no clock, and no nighttime reprieve from the bright overhead light, he couldn't tell how long he'd been there. Constance was right: he might as well be in jail forever.
Time dragged on for what seemed like a year. Nick meditated and slept and meditated some more. The thoughts were hard to stop.
When the slot at the bottom of the cell door slid open, Nick opened his eyes. A tray of food slid into his cell. He tried to act civil and rasped out, "Thanks." Nobody answered.
He ate and then sat some more. Now his thoughts turned to his little garage home. He tried to visualize someone else in there, planting evidence. But his thoughts kept returning to those drug company representatives. He wasn't actually seeing anyone; he was just making it all up, fantasizing. His thoughts ran wild, and he cursed himself for his inability to meditate.
Hours of sleep, boredom, and attempted meditation crawled by so slowly that he could barely stand it. Whenever he woke, he had no idea how long he'd been out. Only the delivery of food marked time. After another lifetime in the cell, the second tray of food finally arrived. He ate it ravenously.