The fire in her eyes did not seem interested in becoming words, which was probably for the best, since words often pretend to be clearer than they are.
She walked to the squat rack instead.
The rack frame was bolted into the concrete with the dull permanence of prison equipment.
The bar rested across the j-hooks at shoulder height.
Plates were stacked on the pegs in a pattern that suggested the facility had stocked the gym to satisfy the bare minimum and then considered that commitment enough.
She pulled two plates from the peg, loaded each side of the bar, and stepped back to look at the setup with the efficiency of who had long since stopped treating this as a decision.
She did not look at him.
"You're going to hurt yourself," the inmate said, from where he leaned against with his arms crossed.
He said it like someone narrating a result he had already watched arrive, not unkindly, not especially invested, simply stating one more fact in a universe full of them.
