MICHAEL

The air holds a sharp sting at the prison, like cleaning fluid mixed with old mistakes. A sour weight sits behind your eyes when you walk in.

A chair separates me from Vanessa, a piece of worn glass marking the divide. The phone in my hand weighs more than plastic and metal ought to. Her frame seems narrower now, somehow. Not weak - she would never allow that - but bare, without shine. Missing the crisp white outfits. Missing the flawless hairstyle. Only an orange jumpsuit remains, her gaze flickering toward edges of the room as if expecting whispers from the plaster.

Her face lights up upon spotting me....