[It's terrifying, hearing Mickey say he's worried. Mickey who uses his fists instead of his words, sitting here on the bench small and curled up on himself because of something Cassel's done. No: because of something Cassel does.]

[If he could stop by himself, he would. He thinks. But he can't, and part of him doesn't want to, because what does he have to hold onto without it? Nobody stays. Nobody stays for good. Even Mickey - maybe he'll go soon. Maybe he'll just disappear like the rest of them, or go without saying a word, because maybe he doesn't care as much as Cassel would like to think he does.]

[But all the same, here he is, saying he's worried, like Cassel's somebody important, somebody he wants to hang onto.]

It's never gotten worse than this. [Is this supposed to be reassuring? Even he doesn't know. It can't get worse than this, that's good, but also - things literally couldn't be any worse.] Except one time. And I got better then.

[He glances at Mickey, his expression pinched and worried. It's getting big, he can tell. Even if not for him, for Mickey. It's getting so it interferes, and he wants to make it better. He does. It's just that he's at a loss, too, and he's supposed to be the smart one, the one with his shit together. He's supposed to be the warden.]

If I promise I'll tell you before it gets worse. If I promise. Does that help?