[Sorry, George. You don't get Shaun, but you get the paranoid chain-smoker who's just discovered that most of his personal belongings are gone. His hand flies to his pockets of his new...apparel...and he discovers with a spurt of relief that at least the most important thing is still there.]

[Breathes out. Okay. That's fine. He's wearing clothes of an unfamiliar, prison-specific cut the color of pulverized squash, but at least they're not wholly fucked.]

There's a hell of a lot of space in the middle of this...wherever we are. I don't think we're gonna be kept in here twenty-four-seven.