Today's Reading
After I dressed, I returned to the receiving area. Guard the Former had what appeared to be a staple gun in hand.
Didn't like the look of that.
He gestured for my hand. Warily, I proffered my right one. He yanked it forward, then, with a snick, the gun pierced into the flesh between my thumb and forefinger.
I winced.
He let go. "Behave. Someone's always watching you now."
I hated the sound of that.
Guard the Surlier led me to the prison entrance. "Best of luck, Morikawa," he sneered.
I looked back at him. "How the hell am I supposed to get home?"
"Not my problem," he said, then gave me an unceremonious shove on my back.
And suddenly, I was on the outside.
It was always cold on the trashy rock that Kepler orbited. Good for nothing but a few strip mines and a prison. There were haphazard banks of dirty snow strewn across the pockmarked landing pad, frozen solid from a dozen freezes, thaws, and refreezes over the course of the Rock's near-constant winter. Remarkably, a few leaves still clung to the branches of the native trees. The night sky was overcast with fast-moving clouds, and a frigid breeze nipped at my bare arms.
It didn't feel real until that moment.
I'd been bracing myself for impact, waiting for the warden to leap out like a jump scare and laugh in my face as the guards threw me back in my cell. But despite my initial wariness, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. Maybe it was my need for more, my need to fill the negative spaces in my life, blinding me to the consequences. But for now, I savored my freedom.
I breathed in deeply. The guards used to make me crawl through the airducts, repairing the ancient HVAC units. I used to choke on the chemical smell of harsh detergents as I scrubbed the prison walls and floors. Here, on the Rock, the chilly air was unrecycled, and I could faintly smell the scent of oily smoke and gasoline.
After eight long fucking years, I was on the outside. And I knew exactly who I wanted to call first.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. My last call with my sister was in my allotted comm time two weeks ago, and I knew the landlord was breathing down her neck. If anyone needed good news, it was her. That lightness in my body only grew as I thought about it: I could lend a hand around the house. I could take the kids to school. I could get a job—a real, legitimate job—and help pay our mounting bills. I never considered the prospect of parole. Now that I had it, the possibilities for me and my family were endless.
But when I tried to power up my phone, it stayed dead. And all those light feelings sank to the pit of my stomach.
Now what?
I was still staring at my phone, willing it to come back to life, when I heard a sharp whistle from across the landing pad.
I lifted my head.
And I saw her.
She was taller. Or maybe it was her high heels, tucked beneath a pair of slim black chinos. She wore a white blouse under her open wool coat, and her jewelry was all classy sterling silver. Her hair was now a brilliant shade of platinum blond, cut into a chic bob with razor-sharp edges. Her eyes were shadowed in the dark, but I remembered the color of them: the deepest, darkest brown I had ever seen, just verging on absolute black.
"Edie," she said. "It's been a long time."
It took everything in me to not walk backward back into the prison.
She must have known, because before I could make a graceless escape she said, "They won't take you back. I made sure of that." She stepped forward, and in the fluorescent lights of the landing pad I could see the depths of her brown eyes. "If you're interested in ruining your life again, you'll have to do it the old-fashioned way."
"Not gonna do it yourself?" I said through gritted teeth.
"I think you've proven yourself capable of doing it all on your own," she said coolly.
...
