Smith was not happy about the move.

He liked his crib. He was used to his crib. He had already spent years in this cell and over the course of time had grown used to the three walls and barred gate that made up cell 22, A Row, Housing Unit 4.  

The cell block, in an older section of the prison, was scheduled to be renovated. The galvanized pipes were constantly giving way and water dripping from the ceiling, down the walls, or across the floors was an everyday occurrence. Then there were the toilet and sewer backups.

Paint was peeling in layers nine deep, concrete flaking off as if it thought it was paint, and an overall coating of dirt so old and persistent that it was embedded into concrete, stainless, tile and steel. 

And into flesh.

It was dirt imported from the dusty exercise yard, passed along by the inadequate laundry, fortified via the bacteria and dust in the air ventilation system, and a partner to the bits of food and vermin droppings that dodged every broom. All this was bound together by years of sweat, urine, vomit, and blood.  

Smith was not happy about the move.

Packing would not take long. He took his books down from his only shelf (this year arranged by length) and set them on his bunk. His small TV-DVD player, photographs of his family (he had made the frames himself by learning how to weave-fold cigarette packs), toiletries, and crucifix followed the books. He pulled the corners of his sheets and blanket inward and tied them into a large knot over his belongings. Lastly, he set his plant down on the bunk next to the bundle.

The loudspeaker squawked that Able Row had five minutes.

Smith looked around then decided to take a piss, "for old times sake."  The urine hit the calcium-encrusted stainless steel with a satisfying ring, and Smith punched the flush button. It tended to stick.

"Crap," he thought, "almost forgot you, my little friend."  Smith reached back into the toilet bowl, underneath the stainless rim, and removed his shank. He had made it from a piece of chainlink fence he twisted off in the yard. He called it Excalibur (he thought that was ironic - it wasn't).  

Smith heard the guards walking Baker Row and coming up the stairs, so he knew it was time. He picked up his bundle and his plant and stood at the sliding gate. With his bundle over his shoulder, he mused that he looked like a well-fed hobo, or maybe a tattooed Santa.

Smith was not happy about the move. He liked 22: he liked its location away from the showers, he liked the fact that the closest speaker didn't work well so it wasn't too loud, he liked his neighbors, and he liked the way the morning sun came in the overhead windows opposite the row and lit up his room. 

"Able Row - gates racking, stand clear of gates... gates racking," squawked out the speaker. The barred gate noisily slid open and came to a clanging stop along with the other gates on the row.

Smith stepped forward, turned right, and left his home.