He didn't get any sympathy from the other two inmates, not that he had expected much--they'd never even spoken. They practically faded into the wallpaper as his attention was taken up by the approach of two rifles. He forced himself to look at the guards' faces for a moment, but forgot them immediately. His mind was a clamor of fear--of the chair, and of the emotionless security staff. He held up his hands and forced himself into motion, before he got himself into more trouble.

He sat lightly in the chair. All of his senses buzzed. He craned forward a bit, in the very faintest desperation, to look at the attachment points between chair legs and floor. Solid, rust-free, properly-surfaced angle stock cut and bent at the bottom to form integral brackets, through which were driven 5/8" bolts with washers. [color=A2E2F5][i]Comically structural,[/i][/color] he thought. A pickup truck couldn't rip properly-set five-eighths bolts out of concrete, let alone a 5'9" prison inmate with herniated disks.

He sat up and laid his arms on the armrests. He looked at Dr. Smith, face impassive.