Stevie

The cell block is quiet again—unnervingly so. The hum of lights, the metallic echo of my boots, and the steady thrum of my own heartbeat are the only sounds I hear as I walk back to the third cell on the left.

He sits where I left him—elbows on his knees, head lowered, fingers woven together like he’s holding something fragile between them. Or maybe holding himself together.

I stop just outside the bars.

“You didn’t eat,” I say softly, nodding toward the untouched tray on the floor.

“I’m not hungry.” His voice is tight. Defensive. But not dismissive.

Progress.

I lower myself to sit cross-legged on the concrete...