I woke up to the slide and slam of metal on metal. Concrete box. Ceiling crack that ran from one corner to the middle and forked. Mold in the toilet. Sweatshirt over my mouth and stuffed into my ears to block out the screamed obscenities and the assaulting smell of urine and feces.

Like every morning at three o’clock, a hand slid a tray of shriveled eggs through a slot in the metal door. “You’re out today,” a guard said and shut the hole.

That was it. Three words and the only ones besides inmate, strip, or let’s go that’d been directed at me in a while. I was out? Of solitary? I looked at the wall where I’d chipped off paint each day. Seventy-four. Did I give a fuck about what day of the week it was or how long I’d been in here? No, but I didn’t have much more to do than track time, and I wasn’t even sure I’d counted right since I hardly knew night from day and slept in shifts. I couldn’t even keep track by breakfast, because some days, the staff never brought it.

Under the metal slab and thin mattress they called a bed was a shelf with three books, paper, and a golf pencil. I hadn’t seen grass or the sun since I’d stuck my shovel in the dirt and gone inside for dinner the day of the fight. I hadn’t smoked since then, either, and I’d paid the price for that with withdrawals. The only human contact I’d had in two and half months was a CO cuffing me to and from the showers or for an hour of rec alone in a bigger concrete box with a two-inch sliver of window.

I needed to shake a hand or be touched by someone other than the fuck-face CO who kept “forgetting” my meals when I was already underfed. Or the guard who’d stand in my cell and chuckle while reading my letters to Tiffany. If one had ever made it to her, I’d be shocked. It was punishment for what I’d done to Ludwig, even though I was pretty sure he disgusted the other guards, too. I hated them and this hellhole and the inmates on both sides of me who banged on the walls all hours of the day. They could scream endlessly and must’ve painted the walls in shit for how bad the smell got sometimes.

I took the prison-made sweatshirt off my face and sat up, blinking against the fluorescent light overhead. My knees ached from bending them to keep my feet from hanging off the bed. I shoveled the food fast, partly out of hunger, partly so I wouldn’t have to taste it. The juice carton was expired but I drank it anyway, and then it was back to pacing the six-by-nine-foot cell or looking at a wall. More thinking. Every thought there was to have, I’d had it.

No two ways about it—I’d snapped. No warning, no build up, no attempt to talk myself down. One second I’d been playing cards, the next, my hands were around a man’s throat. I’d sat in here watching the scene play out in my head like I’d been an observer rather than a participant. I could see it clearly, because I’d seen the same thing happen with my dad. He never made a decision to hit one of us. He just did it, no discernable reason, pattern, or threat. He’d hit me over dirty dishes as a kid and my mom while she was just watching TV.

The only break in my routine since entering the hole had been a trial in front of a judge. If they’d charged me with assault, it would’ve meant a lot more time in prison. CO Jameson had come to my rescue, testifying that I’d been provoked, physically and verbally, by Ludwig.

It wouldn’t matter if CO Jameson had personally delivered me an ice cream sundae each day in here—the truth was, guards were pigs and I regretted the fact I’d ever wanted to be a member of law enforcement. I had no shot at ever becoming a cop now, and that was a blessing. Charles Kaplan had been right. Only people at the top had power, and I’d never go to the top. Not with my record or background. I’d been so fucking green, asking Dexter what my past or family history had to do with me getting convicted of a crime I didn’t commit.

Being in here had given me lots of time to replay that night in my head. Look at it from different angles. Could it have been some kind of set up? Who’d been around the fire the night I’d taken Vern’s truck? Who’d had beef with me? Everyone at camp was a suspect. Had I trusted the wrong people? Vern the janitor was a local. The officer who’d pulled me over had been friendly, but who the fuck was he anyway? Bucky, the camp cook, had had a problem with me from the start—was it because I had a girl he’d never dream of scoring? Then there was the chick I’d bought the mood ring off of. I didn’t know any of them from a stranger.

The smells, the noise, the guards and meal times meant I couldn’t sleep more than a few hours a night. My thoughts had warped and changed and wandered but they never, ever went the fuck away. Sometimes, they were reduced to simple things.

Food. They weren’t feeding me enough.

Shelter. I had a roof over my head, four dank walls, a shitter, and one-hour-a-day access to a window too small to see out of.

Survival. I was angrier than I’d ever been, but I’d have to check my temper going forward, or I’d end up back in here. I’d already bloodied my knuckles on a wall a few times reliving the days before I’d been herded here.

Sex.

I hadn’t fucked in over a year, and I was certain it was killing me from the inside out. I needed a raw, animalistic fuck, and the last person I’d touched and kissed and felt was Tiffany, so I’d fantasize about what I’d do to her if they let her in here for an hour. I’d take her from every angle, in every way a man could think of.

I’d jerk off and then the guilt would hit. Tiffany didn’t deserve to be treated like that, even in my head. When my heart stopped pounding and my thoughts had cleared, it was just Lake. Her spun-gold hair, eyes like fresh mountain water on a summer afternoon, light shining from within. My fantasies about her were different. Over and over, I thought about the moment I’d see her again. How it would feel to hug her, to smell her strawberry-scented hair again. Did she use the same shampoo she had back then? Would she dress the same, look the same?

Sometimes, out of nowhere, I tasted watermelon. I’d be in the middle of the most disgusting meal of my life and the watermelon had my mouth tingling. It made everything worse. I’d rather eat chalky meatloaf than be reminded of what I’d never have again. Nothing seemed to erase it. It was sweet, harmless, youthful.

When I got worked up over Ludwig and the injustice of being where I was, I didn’t commit, I’d lie on the cell floor like I had on the concrete deck of the camp pool and force stars onto the mottled ceiling. It was my most cherished memory, both when I’d done it with Maddy and later with Lake. I’d close my eyes and get back on the horse, Lake clutching me out of a childish yet grown-up fear. There was that awkward and wonderful kiss she’d pressed on the corner of my mouth, a nothing kiss, her mouth behind my ear, then near my lips for only a second and yet . . .

What if I’d just done it? Just taken her in the lake like she’d wanted to? In the truck? Maybe it wasn’t romantic, but I’d have been good to her. Gentle. I’d have gotten to know all the curves and lines of her body for a night. I’d have pushed her shorts down and eased into her, my rough hands greedy for her softness. I’d have taken the one thing I’d wanted more than anything else in years—Lake.

And I would think about that, my heart rate settling, eyes closed, my head back against the concrete. In my mind, I’d be in the truck with Lake in my arms, hands wandering over the silky, downy hair at the very top of her thigh. I’d open her shorts, kiss the peaks of her breasts, bury my cock in her until I’d spent myself to the point I could no longer get hard.

Her innocence and simplicity defied the chaos in my head . . .

I’d open my eyes to the four walls around me and realize I’d come again, thinking of Lake, like the fucking piece of shit I was for wanting to strip away more of her innocence than I already had. I would cry for her, for Maddy, for the monster I’d allowed to hurt my sister, for the monster I’d become. I’d never been or be anything else. It was in my blood. Thinking of Lake that way was wrong, but I’d done it, and not just once, and maybe I should’ve just fucking given in to her watermelon kisses. Then I’d be in here for a real reason and at least I would’ve had those moments of bliss in my life.

After breakfast, I drifted in and out of sleep until a guard opened the door, cuffs in hand. “Let’s go, inmate.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Fucking Bermuda. Don’t forget your bathing suit, motherfucker.”

Back in gen pop, Wills had moved to the bottom bunk and a man I didn’t recognize sat on a bed across from ours. I went to my locker. Most of my letters were there but not all. Anything I’d had from commissary was gone. I looked from Wills to the new guy. “Where’s my stuff?”

Wills got up. “Welcome back, asshole.” He nodded across the cell. “That’s Javier. He doesn’t speak English.”

I slammed the door shut. I had to let it go. Some of Lake’s letters were out there, but I’d at least been smart enough to rip her return address off of them the night I’d been tempted to read them. I couldn’t afford to let it get it to me. It wasn’t her, just some words on a paper.

“Fucked up in the hole, ain’t it?” Wills asked. “No time in there. Nothing. Three hots and a cot.” Wills’ shiny head reflected the too-bright overhead lights. “Lemme see, what’d you miss. . .” Wills said. “Warden cracking down, made the guards send Puentes to SHU for taking some high-profile chester off the count and now they’re all pissing themselves thinking Puentes’s men on the outside will retaliate . . .”

Wills was talking too much, too fast. A prisoner banged on the bars of a cell and others joined in, hollering. Javier shouted something at me in Spanish. “You mind shutting the fuck up?” I asked both of them. “And move your shit off my bed.”

Wills raised his palms but got to work. “Just trying to catch you up.”

“What day is it?”

“Let me check my agenda and get back to you.”

“Fuck you. When’s the next visitation?”

“Two days, but you’ve been gone months, brother. You think your girl will remember?”

Two-and-a-half months was a lifetime to a twenty-year-old. I ran my hand back and forth over my hair. It was getting down to my ears. I needed a cut, a fresh shave, and about thirty hours of sleep. But first, I needed to call Tiffany to let her know I was out.

Javier stared at me and made the sign of the cross.

“What’s his problem?” I asked.

“I think he thinks this place is haunted. Something about the prison being built on a cemetery.”

I went to look through the bars of the window. I needed to see something other than gray concrete. But then, I thought better of it, turning to lean my back against a wall so I could see the whole room. So I could see Wills.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he asked.

A guard came down our aisle, tapping his baton against bars and walls. My heart beat unnaturally hard. “You knew I’d lose my shit,” I said to Wills. “You pushed me anyway.”

“I had no idea you’d go that far. Swear on my life. Swear on Kaya’s life.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You think I’d tell a lie on my daughter’s life, you piece of shit?”

“Yeah, I do. You’re the piece of shit here, not me.”

Wills got quiet. That was a first. Normally, he’d step up, accuse me of being a pussy or of showing disrespect. “You would’ve killed Ludwig,” he said. “Over nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

“I saw it in your eyes, some kinda . . .” He hovered his hand over his face, up and down. “This blankness, man. We all saw it. He’d be dead if Jameson hadn’t been there.”

I knew the look he was talking about. Unfortunately, it’d been passed down. Now that it’d happened once, had I broken some kind of seal? Would it happen again? How careful did I need to be? I was suddenly exhausted. Maybe this was my nighttime, I wasn’t sure. I’d lost track of when and how many hours I’d slept in isolation. My temples pounded with the heat and incessant noise. There was only one way to calm myself down quickly. “You better put a cigarette in my hand right fucking now, and I want a carton by the end of the day.”

“A carton? Are you mental?”

“I don’t know. Try me.”

Wills looked at me like he didn’t know me, like I hadn’t been his cellmate the past year. And then he got me a cigarette. Yeah, well, fuck him. He seemed different to me, too.

In the cafeteria later, men stepped aside to let me get my food first. Some kid I didn’t recognize gave me his seat at a table. I didn’t take it. I sat alone with my back to the wall, watching inmates and guards.

A group of men passed me. “Respect,” one of them said. That was what almost killing a CO had earned me. I forked green beans into my mouth, watching the guys until they sat. Wills kept his distance. Something had changed. I was one of the bigger guys in the prison, but that wasn’t news. There were men in here who’d done more heinous things than nearly strangle a man to death. The difference now, I guessed, was that I’d gone blank in the face, as Wills had put it. I was unpredictable. At any moment, I could snap for no reason. I could hurt someone.

The thing that got me through was the fact that I had a court date. That was a good thing. It was the first step to my release. I would’ve been fine to work and smoke and sleep until then, but when Friday came around, Tiffany showed.

I’d just smoked three cigarettes in a row and felt a little woozy after my extended break. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to see her, but when I did, I was glad she’d come. She’d dressed up for me, even more than usual. Hair, makeup, a velvety red dress, heels, the whole nine.

Tiffany’s mouth fell open as I approached. I leaned down to kiss her cheek, but she threw her arms around my neck and wouldn’t let go.

“Enough, inmate,” a guard called over the crowd.

She smelled of something sweet, some kind of berry, and she was soft. Everything had been so hard up until now, and she was so damn soft, but I couldn’t bring myself to put my arms around her. I didn’t know if she was still mine, if she ever really had been. After the past few months, nobody and nothing felt like it belonged to me. “Tiff.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered in my ear.

“Sutter.” The CO had gotten out the bullhorn so everyone turned to us. “Don’t make me come over there.”

I pulled back. Tiffany put her face in her hands and burst into tears.

“Jesus.” I wasn’t sure what to do. Tiffany had never cried in the year we’d been having these visits. Panic hit me in the chest. So much could go wrong. Was it Lake? Had Tiffany met someone else? “What happened?”

She shook her head.

Helplessly, I stared down at her. I couldn’t even comfort her without risking getting in trouble. I didn’t know how else to console her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, moving her hands to cover her mouth. Mascara had smudged at the outside corners of her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Manning.”

“Why?”

“You look—you look . . .”

I hadn’t bothered with a mirror since I’d gotten out of the hole. It’d been eleven weeks without sunlight, exercise, REM sleep, or decent portions of food. My nose had been broken by a boot in the fight, and I doubted Medical had bothered to set it straight. They’d barely stitched up my busted lip properly. I could only imagine how I looked.

When the guard wasn’t looking, I wiped her eye makeup away. “I’m fine.”

“What have they done to you?” she asked.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“What was it like?”

“I can’t talk about it.” Based on our previous conversations, I was pretty sure she could handle at least the basics of what I’d been through—the fight, a slow descent into madness—but there wasn’t any way of putting it into words. I’d done my best when I’d written to her, but even then, I couldn’t help playing it down. “Did you get any of my letters?”

“Letters? No. I got nothing. Anything I heard came from Grimes and he made it sound like . . . he didn’t say that . . .” Her eyes scanned my face.

Afraid she might cry again, I gestured at the table. “Sit. We’re drawing attention.”

She dropped heavily onto the bench, and I sat across from her. “You have to tell me what happened, Manning. Please.”

“Tiff, the best thing you can do for me right now is talk. Just talk.” I waited for her to launch into it, whatever I’d missed over the last five or so visits we hadn’t gotten. Instead, she just sat and stared at me. I must’ve looked fuck-all bad. I couldn’t give a good goddamn about that, but what was going through her mind? Was it enough to turn her off me for good? Enough for her to walk away? And then what? I’d be alone, which I basically was anyway. So who gave a fuck what she thought?

I couldn’t control her. She could up and go at any moment, move on with another man, take Lake with her, and what the fuck could I do?

“You going to break up with me because I don’t look the same,” I said, “just fucking do it. I’m not going to sit through an hour of a Dear John pity visit.”

“No,” she whispered. She bit her thumbnail, slumping in her seat. She looked at me with a rare kind of vulnerability that reminded me of a young girl. Her as a young girl. And I had to admit, I didn’t want her to go. I was angry. I was scared. There was definitely something very wrong, and it didn’t have to do with my appearance. “What then?” I asked.

A few more tears slid over her cheeks. She shook her head hard. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“Not nothing. Just come out and say it.”

“I can’t. I don’t even know what it is, I just—”

“I’m not in the mood to play games.” I’d had enough of those for a lifetime, and my patience was shorter than ever. If there was something I needed to know, I didn’t want to sit and dig for it an hour. “Just say it.”

“I think . . .” She brushed at an invisible spot on the metal surface between us and avoided my eyes. “I don’t know.”

Whatever she had to say, it wasn’t going to be good. “Goddamn it, Tiffany.”

“Fine.” She studied my face again like it was a math equation. “I think I, like, love you.”