“Oh good, you’s up, huh, nigga?” Demarcus said, his thick drawl echoing in the drafty barn, his voice stawkless as a white man. He sat down on the edge of the bunk. Demarcus had thick muscles toned by his own time behind bars, tattoos decorating his densely-scarred brown skin, including a deer with a target on its head tattooed over his chest. He seemed even larger and more menacing now, wearing only his plain white boxers in the humid air of this Virginia summer night. Demarcus was young but seemed old to Lamar, or maybe it was the other way around.
From On the Run