Bridge Traffic
"New batch this week," Sam says, nodding toward the glass.
Elena adjusts her briefcase strap, eyes forward. "Don't look."
But everyone looks. That's the point. The bridge between Central Station and Meridian Tower serves as the city's primary commuter route, and the prisoners line both sides like living exhibits, IV drips snaking from their arms to overhead rails that follow the walkway's curve.
They wear standard-issue gray. Sit in regulation chairs. Stare at nothing while commuters stream past on their way to meetings and lunch appointments. The morning rush provides optimal viewing hours - 8:47 AM, according to Elena's phone. Peak traffic.
"That one's been here since spring," Sam whispers, indicating a woman whose drip bag hangs nearly empty. "Heard she was some kind of journalist."
Elena catalogues her automatically. Female, middle-aged, sedated but responsive. The placard reads Financial Crimes - Municipal Fraud. Standard classification for journalists who exceeded their reporting parameters.
The subject sits upright, pupils tracking movement with the sluggish attention of properly medicated specimens. Her drip rate runs at regulation intervals - calibrated to maintain compliance without rendering the display unconscious. Functional dependency.
"They could leave anytime," Sam says.
"Sure they could."
Elena knows the withdrawal protocols. Forty-eight hours of systematic agony, followed by weeks of neurochemical chaos that makes basic functioning impossible. The city provides rehabilitation programs, but the waiting list stretches eighteen months. Most prisoners check themselves back in after three days clean.
A businessman checks his watch, glancing at the display with the casual interest of someone examining store windows. Below them, trains arrive and depart with mechanical precision, carrying passengers who never see the bridge's underside where waste lines and electrical conduits service the exhibition space.
Sarah's drip bag empties with a soft click. A maintenance worker appears immediately, wheeling a cart of fresh supplies. He changes the bag with practiced efficiency, then moves to the next prisoner - an older man Elena doesn't recognize, gray-haired and hollow-eyed, IV line disappearing into his sleeve.
"Wonder what he did," Sam murmurs.
Elena doesn't wonder. The bridge serves multiple functions: deterrent, entertainment, waste management. Maximum efficiency.
They reach the station entrance. The 9:15 to Ashford idles at the platform.