We don’t choose who we live with — we go with whoever they say we must. Fourteen hours a night, every night, every week, locked in a cell with a stranger who becomes someone. You talk until you know each other’s secrets. Then talking becomes boring.

John asks who my perfect cellmate would be. “If there were any justice — haha — I’d share a cell with Luigi Mangione.”

John looks intrigued. “Why him?”

I realise that John’s a good-looking guy, and I know my answer matters; everything rests on what I say. But I bottle it. “I think he’d be an extremely interesting guy.”

John sighs. “I guess he would be.”

Dancing around the truth, neither of us is brave enough to be honest.