[ Jimmy listens with his own brand of attentiveness—mouth drawn tight except for the occasional disapproving twitch. Eyes drifting to the window (should there be one) when the man describes his supervised garden walks. It sounds deathly dull and—like everything around here—vaguely sinister. He'd last all of three days.

Jimmy finds himself warming to the guy, his toothy tooth-free smile. ] Yeah. Like clockwork. [ He says of the caretakers. A less-than-idle observation, but he doesn't hammer it home too hard. ]

Then this [ —the hand clutching the charcoal gestures at the ad hoc art installation, and Jimmy's eyes follow, his gaze respectfully apprehensive— ] is all you, huh? You ever think about mixing it up with some portraits, that kinda thing?