"I'm not eating that." The prisoner turns up his nose at the lumpen, unidentifiable slop. The guards exchange a glance. One shrugs. "Fine by me," she says, and takes the food away. The evening brings more of the same beige sludge. He turns it down again.
In the morning, bitter and grumpy from hunger and exhaustion, he throws his bowl on the floor. The guard looks so coldly furious that he wonders if she will strike him again. But she just walks out.
There's no food that evening, and no visit from the guards. The prisoner sits and shivers and paces the length of his cell. The night is long and cold and he cannot sleep. The slop remains on the floor where he threw it. It's disgusting to look at. But it smells almost like food.