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that each of them transformed. If I was off by a day or two, I don’t have any idea if that would have changed Jeremy’s prediction.
    Al Hudson is the easiest to date. He was nothing before he came to Stanton Valley, and by all accounts, a pussycat until the morning of February 9, 1956. He moved through inspection and the breakfast line without incident. Some of the inmates interviewed after the fact said that they saw a change in Al, even before he sat down. People always see a lot in retrospect. The man sitting on Al’s right, Morgan Oliver, didn’t see anything at all after that breakfast.
    When his butt hit the bench, Al picked up his spoon and turned to Morgan. They say he moved so quickly that nobody knew that Morgan’s left eye was out until Al was jamming his spoon in Morgan’s right. In a prison cafeteria, mayhem begets mayhem, so the subsequent accounts are a little loose.
    Most believe that Al turned to his other side and went to work on that neighbor. His name has been lost to the winds of time, but if one believes the stories, Al removed the man’s heart and kidneys with the same spoon still dripping with Morgan’s eyeball meat.
    Al was never the same after that morning. He couldn’t be tamed by drugs, shocks, or lobotomy. The psychiatric prison took custody of him, but sent him back a week later. His mumbling was unintelligible to the staff, but is believed to have caused two other inmates to commit suicide.
    Al was kept in solitary confinement after that. The warden decreed that Al should be kept there for the rest of his life. The segregation almost worked. For a year, they stifled Al’s murderous intentions by keeping a two-foot thick wall between him and any other human being. Eventually, Al found a way to trick them. He laid still for thirty hours, until everyone was sure he had passed away. The warden kept a man on constant vigil, watching through the slot where they passed Al food. He never twitched, and nobody saw him breathe. When they opened the door, Al claimed the lives of two guards before the others beat him to death.
    The other three of The Big Four were not as easy to pinpoint. After their time in this cell, they were changed, but they were also crafty.  
    David Mitchell waited until he was paroled before he began his crime spree.
    Dr. Hopkins committed his crimes secretly. He wasn’t even suspected to be the culprit until he’d executed dozens of felonies to be added to the relatively minor crimes that got him locked up in the first place.  
    Chris Poole, the most notorious denizen of this cell, was perhaps the craftiest. He engineered his escape and then began to murder and maim.
    It was his escape which led to this wing being shut down. Since the details of his plan were never uncovered, they could no longer trust the security of the wing.
    It seems very secure to me. The bars are thick and immovable when they’re locked. The walls, floor, and ceiling are solid concrete, which hurts if you try to bang on it. The only other exit would be through the toilet or the sink drain.
    I stop my inspection when I hear a noise.  
    I’ve never had a particular fear of rats until this night. Somehow, as soon as Fradeux rounded the corner, I began to imagine a dozen hungry rats, weaving between the bars and coming for my feet. With all the food and inmates gone, they would be very hungry indeed.  
    This doesn’t sound like a rat though. This sounds like a piece of chalk on a chalkboard. It’s drawing a long, slow line. I’ve got my eyes peeled for any movement at all. Dust flies through the shafts of yellow light. As they pass behind the shadows of the window, they’re dark, then light, then dark again. All the flashing, swirling dust makes it hard to focus on the cell across the aisle, but I do. The chalk noise stops. I figure it must be another piece of equipment somewhere, and the proximity of the sound is just an illusion. But when it starts again, it’s hard to deny. I move to