Life in a Box: The Plight of American Youth Growing Up in Solitary Confinement

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Imagine being locked behind a steel door in a room so small you can barely stretch your arms out all the way.  All of your meals come in through a narrow slot in the door.  On the left side of your tiny cell is a rusted metal bed with a thin, rubber-foam mattress that is spotted with mold. Graffiti is scrawled all over the dirty walls.  To your right is a stainless steel toilet-sink combination.  The room smells of urine, sweat, and drool. In the cell next to you, you can hear someone screaming.  You are caged in this six-by-eight foot concrete box for twenty-three hours a day.  The days blend into each other.  You cry and scream and yell.