[The Piemaker sets his hands out in front of him, observing them. It's been weeks - a month and several weeks - since he last touched fruit or flour. But it still sticks to him, no matter how many times he washes his hands. He'll always smell like pie, and his hands will always be big and gentle and worn. There's no changing who he is, not at the heart of himself.]

When Chuck and I decided together that I would be the one to come here, we agreed that no matter what, I would put my inmate before myself in all things. It's getting harder and harder to do.

Do you think I'm close to breaking?