Benji Peletel always knew where his next meal was coming from.
Through the slot in the door of his solitary jail cell.
He also knew what his next meal would be.
“Step back,” said a voice from the speaker in the ceiling.
Benji stepped back from the door, the slot would open, and a tray would slide in.
On it, a stale brown block of some kind of meat and bread and other things, but as for what was in it, that’s another matter.
When he was done, the slot would open and he’d slide the empty tray back out.