In prison, everyone has a job. I recall one occasion, when a new group of dog trainers were having a meeting, an old prisoner with a walker coming out of his housing unit. He too had been assigned as a trainer.
As the meeting among prisoners proceeded on the quad in front of the unit—perhaps 100’ away from the front door—the old guy slowly made his way down the walk. He had an assistant (whose own job was to take care of him).
Just before he got to the group, they finished their business and broke up. The old guy stopped, sighed, and slowly turned around to make his way back.
I recall a conversation I had with his assistant. It seems the old guy was so infirm, that at night he often couldn’t make his way to the bathroom. The assistant’s job in the morning included cleaning him up.