A rusting wire fence marks the station’s brig area, a leaky regocrete blockhouse stained with grime and oil. Guards with rifles chat among themselves as they walk along the sentinel platforms.
The structure is two stories tall, its flanks dotted with the off-color rectangles of filled-in windows. Visitors with slumped shoulders thread their way through a razor wire maze to approach the structure’s large riveted door. Under the gaze of armed guards, a line forms at a smaller door where documents are passed through a slot. Some raise their voices to plead with the guard on the other side, some merely wait in silence. The door opens and closes regularly as the building swallows and disgorges its visitors.
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