Thammarat sat in the dimly lit living room, his gaze fixed upon his wife and their two older sons. The four of them remained silent, the weight of the situation pressing down upon them as they contemplated their next steps.
After a long pause, Thammarat broke the silence. "They moved him to Red Onion prison," he began, his voice tinged with a hint of concern. "They can't handle him in New York."
One of the sons, his brow furrowed, turned to his father. "It was a maximum-security prison, the one in New York, right, Por?" he asked, his tone laced with a touch of disbelief.
Thammarat nodded solemnly. "Yes," he replied, the single word carrying the gravity of the situation.
The middle son leaned forward, his eyes widening with worry. "And they can't handle him?" he inquired, his voice barely above a whisper.
