The mattress was not too hard, the blankets soft and warm, but the pillow was as stiff as a log of wood. It is as though the Guardians feel the casual must not have comfort everywhere. This policy is part of the determination to prevent a return visit. Thus, you may stretch your limbs, hug your arms under soft fleecy wool, but your head shall find no ease. To and fro⁠—to and fro, you turn on that torturous pillow.

The “cell,” slightly funnel-shape, is like a coffin, as it suddenly occurred to me. I felt myself entombed in an instant, cut off forever from the light of day. I wanted to scream⁠—a sob choked my throat⁠—I was getting hysterical⁠—and I knew it. And over and above all this quaking of the flesh, and shrinking of the spirit, was another and more dreadful piece of knowledge. I knew that if I tried the handle of the door it would not open. No handle was there. I could not escape from my funnel-shaped coffin, I might beat my hands upon the wall, but I could not get free.