That day, the row went silent in mourning. The only sound was your whispering rage as Shawna grasped vaguely for comfort, twirling her hair anxiously between her fingers.
How do you wake up every morning? you had asked, unable to keep the anger from your voice. How do you get out of bed, knowing you work in a system like this?
My dad had this job, she said with a shrug. My brother, too.
But don’t you ever think about what you’re participating in?
Not really, Shawna had said, disinterested.
You wanted to tell Shawna that she was a cog in a deplorable machine, that prisons are also companies, maximizing profit, staying afloat on a pile of bodies like Big Bear’s. You have been watching the news. You have been reading the paper. It is not your problem, not your concern, but still no coincidence that you are one of only three white men on A-Pod. You wouldn’t care much about all that, if you were not subject to the same psychotic system.
You wanted to push Shawna, but it wasn’t worth the risk. You needed her too badly. She wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand—you both listened to the sound of the row, muted for once, a group of men grieving over something more despicable than themselves.
*
The new warden appears. He has a crew cut and a boxy jaw—his gaze makes you feel like an earthworm, crushed soggy along the bottom of his shoe.
Do you understand today’s procedure?
Yes.
Here is your Execution Summary, your Religious Orientation Statement, a copy of your Offender’s Travel Card, your Current Visitation List, your Execution Watch Notification, your Execution Watch Log, your Offender Property Inventory, your medical records. Do you have any questions?
No.
He slides the paperwork beneath the steel bars. You cannot speak, those first rigid questions echoing.
Do you know who you are?
Yes.
Do you know why you are here?
You had no choice.
The answer was yes.
*
Into a new visitation room.
Tina wears the same outfit as this morning, which feels like a thousand years ago. Sitting behind the glass, you recall the smug surety of your last meeting—the fact jumps angry in your throat. Impossible.
Hello, Ansel, Tina says through the phone. I’m afraid I don’t have the best news.
You know what is coming. You clench your jaw until it aches—you have given very little thought to the appeal. It was supposed to be irrelevant.
The appeal, Tina says. The court decided not to consider it.
What do you mean? you ask. They can’t just ignore it entirely.
Yes, Tina says, they can. It’s not uncommon.
But didn’t you tell them? Didn’t you tell them I’m—
You cannot say the word. Innocent. Tina knows better.
Didn’t you tell them I don’t want to die?
As soon as the phrase leaves your mouth, you regret it. It sounds childish, too hopeless.
We filed, Tina says, not answering the question. I’m sorry. We did everything we could.
You hate her for this lie. This glossy woman, who clicks her nails against the table like little hard candies, flicking her tongue between white Chiclet teeth. It occurs to you then, a burst of clarity: Tina believes you deserve this punishment.
I’m sorry, Tina says. I’m—
You don’t let her finish. You consider the weight of the telephone in your hand, then rear your arm back. You hurl the phone against the glass, which does not shatter, only bounces the phone off with a loud, unsatisfying crack. Tina does not move, does not even flinch.
The guards come running, like you knew they would. You don’t fight, but they handle you hard anyway, twisting your arms so far back that your shoulders will be sore tomorrow. Tomorrow. The last you see of Tina is the top of her head, bowed in reverence or disdain or indifference or sorrow, you cannot tell which.
*
A violent push, back into your cell. The door slams shut. You lie flat on the lumpy cot, arm flung over your eyes. You try to think of Blue—usually, she brings you comfort. But it’s this room. It’s this cell, new and alien. When you conjure Blue now, she is looking at you with that familiar question.
What happened with Jenny? Blue had asked.
It was your second week at the Blue House. A sunny day, humid and fragrant. You had spent all morning in the yard sawing lumber, and a trail of sweat trickled slow down your back.
Sometimes things just don’t work out, you said.
Why not? Blue asked.
She held a can of Coke with the tab flicked off, her head tilted hopeful and curious.
Marriage isn’t easy, you said simply.
Do you still love her? Blue asked.