Sam did not stand himself, though the palms of his hands pressed flat against the tabletop, tense enough that the first and second knuckles on both hands bleached white. It was a posture meant to give him leverage, to negate some of the disadvantage of remaining seated. His features fell into stark lines, closed off and belligerent, though the bleak, sick look still lurked behind his eyes.

"What the hell am I supposed to do? Pretend everything's normal? I can't just sit here and act like I don't remember any more than you do." As though picking up a cue, he was careful as well to keep his voice low enough to shield the discussion from too many prying ears. The last thing he desired was interference from another inmate, or worse yet one of the staff.