Shawna stands behind the rest of the group. Her head is bowed to her shoes—you cannot catch her eye. She hunches between two familiar guards, pasty men with jiggling bellies, all of whom have gathered to see you out. One pudgy guard steps forward, slings your red mesh bag over his shoulder. You have left your Theory where Shawna has agreed to retrieve it later, a stack of pages tucked beneath the bed. Shawna will make copies in Huntsville. She will send them to the news stations, the talk shows, the big book publishers.
Do you have everything, Packer? the warden asks, with a sadness that ages him. A jowly, sagging pity. In it, you see the hundreds of other men the warden has walked down this stretch of concrete, the murderers and pedophiles and gang members and drunk drivers, indistinguishable in those fifty traveling feet.
Yes, you say. I’m ready.
As they lead you from your cell into the narrow white hall, you steal one last fleeting glance at Shawna. She cannot come along, but you try to say it with your eyes: We can do this. She is sweaty with nerves, her skin shining. A single tear travels down her cheek, delicate. You know, from years of practice with Jenny, how to shape your expression in a way that reassures her. You know how it’s supposed to look. Love. You slip it on, aim it at Shawna. Visibly, she softens.
As you make the fated march down the hall, the men in the surrounding cages are silent. This is the tradition: a blank, unnerving quiet. It is alarming to see their faces, a solemn procession behind the streaky glass. This farewell feels sad, deranged, aimed wrongly at you. You want to reassure them—you have a plan. You are not like the rest of them.
You step forward, through the crash gates. Metal detectors. Reception area.
A gasp.
You are outside.
The things you have forgotten. Clouds. The cotton candy puff of them, lethargic and easy, half asleep. The recreation cage only gets slats of light through the roof, and you have forgotten this texture, this detail. The smell of pavement, baking in the sun. Car exhaust. The trees on the other side of the parking lot stand still in the rancid heat, green leaves barely fluttering in the wind. You have forgotten the sun, tickling the skin on your arms, and you stop for a sweet breath before the warden yanks you forward.
The world is bristling, magic. And soon it will be yours again.
*
The van is waiting by the chain link fence.
You expected a flock of correctional officers, dopey and power-drunk. Instead, you find half a dozen men in business attire—you recognize the senior warden, and the deputy executive director. They are flanked by a mass of sanctioned peace officers, sent by the Office of the Inspector General: a small herd of hulking men in fatigues, armed with assault rifles. You think of the little pistol Shawna has described, her husband’s old Smith & Wesson revolver, and something shifts uncomfortable in the pit of your stomach.
You approach the grumbling vehicle, surrounded on all sides. The warden slides the door open, and a lingering second of utter panic engulfs you—the gun will be waiting on the floor beneath the front seat. The anxiety eases slightly as they push you toward the far window of the van, right where Shawna has promised, just behind the driver. The van smells like rubber boots and old vinyl. You knew that these officers would ride along, that the armored cars would follow, a police motorcade, but you did not expect it to feel so menacing.
Gravel crunches. As the van bumbles from the parking lot, you take a long exhale, extend your legs beneath the seat, where Shawna has planted the pistol. Your shoe brushes something hard. Metal. But the reassurance does not come. You picture Shawna’s face, the self-conscious blush of her flaky skin, and it occurs to you that the plan is not perfect.
The plan is hardly a plan at all.
Soon, you will reach the river. The highway will take you past scattered homes and dry plots of land, swampy ponds and old manufacturing plants. Eventually, you will pass the Sam Houston Monument. The signal.
Until then, you wait. The driver’s window is cracked slightly open. Outside smells like April—the scent filters through the inch-wide slit, a promiscuous hint of floral summer. Teasing, fresh.
It brings you back.
*
The third Girl came right after the second. A test, that bottomless summer.
You went alone to a bar, where you ordered a Coke and scanned the crowd. The disappointment hovered, looming. You suspected you would not find that stunning relief again, but you had to try, just one more time. You did not care what it meant, that peace came only after violence, and then only sometimes. It felt less like a choice and more like a need—you had to chase the quiet.