It continues like this. But things slowly change over time.

After a few weeks of the 

cortado

s they start giving him beer in the evenings. And he knows it's evening because they're letting him go outside for a walk. He gets to see the sun and breathe fresh air.

The beer is a consolation object. Because they never give him more than a single beer. Not enough to get drunk. Just something to make the evening feel special. It's not every night they give him a beer. But when they do it's always a glass bottle of 

Budweiser

.

Keith would pretend it was a Corona. Eyes closed, he'd pretend he was on the beach. An evening after a hot dry day. Evening breeze arriving at the same time as the dinner appetite. 

Imogen Howe

away for a moment grabbing a fleece. Just enough time to finish off the rest of this beer. And grab another when she got back with her bare arms covered.

This was his favorite imagination. He dreamed it anytime he'd drink a budweiser.

And one night they gave him two budweisers. Very strange he thought. He expected them to never do it again. And this they never did.

But they did another thing about a week after that two beer evening. They let him not only go for a walk, but a drive.

"Only around the block." the man in the nice suit said.

Keith nodded. The first thing he checked when he got in the car was the gas tank. Full. He could make a run for it he thought.

But he only went around the block. Literally one block. Didn't want to risk anything. When he returned the keys the man in the suit barely looked up at him. Just kept typing into his computer, said "thanks." and Keith went back down the window-less hall and into his cell.