Take the Heat

“Right.” I dig through my purse for my driver’s license and passport.

She accepts them without looking up, then hands me a clipboard with a stack of papers.

Papers I had already filled out. Apparently those were front desk papers and these are east wing papers. My stomach sinks. So far, this has not been a great start to my class project. My professor—the one who’d forced me into this—warned me that prisoners were not always receptive to outsiders. But I haven’t even gotten that far, haven’t seen a single prisoner, and I’m already running into walls.

I complete each form and stack the pages on the clipboard before returning it. The guard accepts them and gives back my IDs… also without looking at me.

My hands clench and unclench, clench and unclench. I force them to lay flat on the desk while the guard files my paperwork and resettles at her desk.

Seconds pass. Or are they minutes? God, it’s cold in here. I hadn’t noticed at first. I’d even worn a cardigan, despite the balmy day, just to be safe. But the damp chill has seeped into my skin and left me shivering where I stood.

Leaning forward, I read the name tag of the guard. “Ms. Breck. Do you know what the next steps are?”

“You can have a seat. I have work to do now, and then I’ll escort you back.”

“Oh, okay.” I glance at the bars I just came through, then the open hallway opposite. “Actually, if you just point me in the direction of the library, I’m sure I can—”

Thunk. The woman lets her hand fall heavy on the desk, and the sound makes me jump. Finally, she turns to look at me. Her dark eyes are faintly accusing. A shiver runs down my spine. I suddenly wish we could go back to talking without eye contact. How did I manage to make an enemy in ten minutes?

“Ms. Winslow,” she says, her voice patronizing.

“You can call me Abby,” I whisper.

A slight smile. Not a nice one. “Ms. Winslow, what do you think we do here?”

The question is clearly rhetorical. I press my lips together to keep from making it worse.

“The Kingman Correctional Facility houses over five thousand convicted criminals. My job is to keep it that way. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes. Of course.” I stumble back, landing hard on the metal folding chair. It wobbles a little before the rubber feet stop my slide.

Heat suffuses my cheeks. I understand the woman’s point. She has to keep the prisoners in and everyone else out. And I assume that part of her job is even to keep people like me safe--civilians who were inside the prison for some purpose. The last thing I want to do is make her job harder. Even though I hate being here, hate being forced into this project, it’s not her fault.

And I understand her other point, which is that even the hallways aren’t safe. At least, not completely. I would require an escort and I would be grateful for it too. So I’ll wait.

I reach down and pull a book from my purse. I never leave home without one, even when I go to classes or run errands. Even when I was young and my mother used to take me on her rounds.

Especially then.

I would hide in the backseat with my nose in the book, pretending I didn’t see the shady people who came to her window when we stopped. I do the same thing now, when the little green light comes on that means the barred doors will open. Someone else is coming through, and this time I doubt it will be a library volunteer.

Pretend to be invisible. Read, read, read.

It’s no use. The most interesting part of the book is just over the top edge--a prisoner is coming through the door.

He’s flanked by two guards--escorted by them, I guess you’d say. But something about the leisurely way he saunters makes them seem like an entourage than anything. He’s a half a foot taller than the guards, but he seems to tower over them. His shoulders are so broad. His torso tapers down to a trim waist and as he nears, his heat pierces the chill around me. Power vibrates around him like a thinly veiled threat.

The little group approaches to the window,

“ID number 85359,” one of the guards says, and I understand that it refers to the prisoner. That’s who he is. Not John Smith or William Brown or whatever his name was. He’s been reduced to a number. The woman at the desk runs through a series of questions. It’s a procedure for checking him out of solitary.

The prisoner faces slightly sideways, spine straight, expression slightly amused, as if the procedure is something for his underlings to handle. Tattoos peek out from under his cuffs and snaking up his neck.

Who got tattoos on his neck? Didn’t it hurt?

I squint, trying to see. The book covers most of my face, like a mask, a shield, making it safe enough to study him. I can just make out roses, thorns. Is that a face drawn in black ink? No, it’s a skull--multiple skulls. They’re strung together in a grim daisy chain. The markings are compelling and…strangely beautiful. But a skull is just a dead person, when you get down to it. It’s hard to find that comforting.

Then the strangest thing happens; the prisoner cocks his head. It’s just a slight shift; his gaze doesn’t stray from the space in front of him, but I know his attention is on me, and I feel lit up by searchlights. Caught. Exposed.