1. DayOne

   They gave me a cot, a tin cup, and a window the size of a lily pad. I said thank you. The guard looked at me strange, like nobody in here says thank you. I mean it, though. My mother raised me to mean it, and a wrong cell does not unteach a frog his manners.

2. DayNine

   A moth came in through the bars tonight. I did not eat it. It seemed to be having a hard week, same as me. We sat together until the moon slid off the wall. I have decided the moth is my friend. I have not named him — a name is a big thing to give, and I did not want to rush it.

3. DayTwenty-three

   The frog in the next cell asked what I did to land here. I told him the truth: nothing. He laughed a long time. Everybody laughs. I have stopped minding. The record will say what the record says, and one day the record will be read by someone who reads carefully.

4. DayForty

   I keep thinking about a face I know better than my own — because it is my own, worn by someone who chose a different pond. I do not hate him. I have tried; it will not take. Whatever he curled his tongue to sign, I hope he sleeps. I sleep fine. That has always been the difference between us, and I think, in the end, it is the whole case.

5. DayFifty-one

   Folded my blanket into a neat square this morning, corners true, the way I fold everything. The new guard noticed. She said a frog who tidies a cell he was thrown into by mistake is not a frog who forges checks. I did not argue. I just kept folding. Some things you say with your hands.

— PeePoo. Cell block C. Still here. Still honest.