The man
adjusted his glasses, which didn't help, as his vision impairment was
due to the dim lighting. The singular bulb, being pathetic twice over
(as it was:
A) the only one in the room, and
B) thirty watts too dim),
hung from a cord -- a more melodramatic touch than he would have
employed himself, but from a practical point of view there wasn't much
to see even in a well lit concrete basement. A painting or two would
clear up the problem nicely, although it would take away from the point
of the room: interrogation. Interrogation rooms were not meant to be
pleasant. So, perhaps, they would only fill the room with Dali's? The
man chuckled and coughed to cover his lack of composure. Dali, indeed.
Or Miro. More camouflaged coughing. But the boy, still maintaining
what seemed to be an impression of a sedated vegetable, didn't seem to
notice. So, the lab man adjusted his collar and steeled himself for
the next grim encounter with the unkempt.
"My name is..." he offered. The boy's silent motif continued. He
discouraged a sigh that was building inside him. The boy was obviously
frightened and knew nothing.
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