Marching forward I approach my new home. I glance through the square peep hole in the door, a Plexiglass cutout about the size of a CD case. The confines of the bleak accommodations are blurry through the dirty glass. The heavy, steel copper-beige colored cell door, pushes inwards, revealing a spartan space no bigger than a single-car parking spot with nine-foot ceilings. The walls are exposed cinder block, painted taupe with a yellowish tinge, contrasting awkwardly with the reddish-beige door and door frame. Fading "Latin Kings" gang symbols and Jesus Christ markings decorate the walls. The ceiling, constructed of rotting wood, is covered in the same decaying yellow paint as the walls. The aged cement floor was once covered in a cool gray top coat but has since worn away, revealing the earthy concrete below. The remnants of the top coat running along the edges of the room are the only proof that the cement floor was once covered with a garage-like sealant. Immediately to the right of the entrance, the narrow sink is installed side by side the toilet with no toilet seat. Old residue from years of feces and urine cakes the inside of the bowl. The smell is reminiscent of death. A few feet above the toilet hangs a "mirror" -- a rectangular scrap of stainless steel with paint dripped edges drilled into the wall -- providing just enough of a cloudy reflection to be able to make out the silhouette of the inmate in front of me, but not enough detail to be of any practical use. Immediately to the left of the toilet, two large brown iron sheets of metal jut out from the wall. The first iron slab hovers about two feet above the ground and the second about five feet from the ground. Each iron shelf supports an old, crusty, blood-stained, scabie-infested cloth mattress. On the floor opposite the floating steel bunkbeds lay two beat up metal lockers side by side. The lockers are bolted to the floor along the wall, creating a narrow cement walkway between the beds and lockers. At the far end of slim cell, opposite the door, the cinder block wall frames a narrow six inch wide slit. The makeshift window, covered by an ancient eroding mosquito net full of holes, runs vertically from waist height to about a foot from the ceiling. Scorching hot and humid Miami air seaps in, lending the room a damp, musky atmosphere teeming with flies and gnats. Pressing my nose against the filthy mosquito net, I take a peek beyond the suffocating cell walls. A patchy field of gravel and wild grass, contained by two rows of tall fences topped with barbed wire, reinforces my feelings of captivity. Attached to the ceiling, two long industrial light bulbs inside a protective cage hang parallel to the beds. The buzzing light radiates a bright yellow luminescence as it hums over the sound of my pounding heart. There's no place like home.