“If he comes. If he doesn’t. What do I do if I see him?”
That was a dangerous question, and for an instant Eli’s dull eyes seemed shot with red. “What did I just say about revenge?”
Adrian ground his teeth and didn’t have to speak to make the point.
The warden was different.
“You let the hate go, boy. You hear me? You’re walking early. Maybe that’s for a reason, and maybe not. What does it matter if you disappear?” The guards were closer; seconds, now. The old man nodded. “As for what you suffered in this place, all that matters is survival. You understand? There’s no sin in survival. Say it.”
“No sin.”
“And no need to worry on me.”
“Eli…”
“Now give an old man a hug, and get the hell out.”
Eli was nodding, and Adrian felt his throat close. Eli Lawrence was more father than friend, and as Adrian wrapped the man up, he found him so light and hot it was as if coals burned in the hollows of his bones. “Thank you, Eli.”
“You walk out proud, boy. Let them see you tall and straight.”
Adrian pulled back, looking for a final glimpse of the man’s tired and knowing eyes. But Eli faded into the shadows, turned his back, and all but disappeared.
“Go on now.”
“Eli?”
“Everything’s fine,” the old man said, but Adrian’s face was wet with tears.
*
The guards let Adrian step into the corridor, but kept their distance. He was not a large man, but even the guards had heard rumors of what he’d endured, and how he’d done it. The numbers were undeniable: the months in hospital, the staples and stitches, the surgeries and broken bones. Even the warden paid attention to Adrian Wall, and that frightened the guards as much as anything else. There were stories about the warden, too; but no one pushed for the truth. It was the warden’s prison, and he was an unforgiving man. That meant you kept your head down, and your mouth shut. Besides, the stories couldn’t be true. That’s how the decent guards consoled themselves.
But not all guards were decent.
When Adrian got to processing, he saw three of the worst standing in the corner, hard-faced, flat-eyed men that even now made Adrian hesitate. Their uniforms were creased and spotless, all the leather shined. They lined the wall, and a message was in their arrogance. We still own you, it said. Inside. Outside. Nothing’s changed.
“What are you looking at, prisoner?”
Adrian ignored them and took his cues, instead, from a small man behind a counter topped with steel pillars and chain-link.
“You need to strip.” A cardboard box settled on the counter, and clothes unseen for thirteen years came out. “Go on.” The clerk flicked a glance at the three guards, then back to Adrian. “It’s okay.”
Adrian stepped out of prison shoes and stripped off the orange.
“Jesus…” The clerk paled at the sight of all the scars.
Adrian acted as if it were okay, but it wasn’t. The guards who’d brought him from the cell were silent and still, but the other three were joking about the crooked fingers and the vinyl skin. Adrian knew each of them by name. He knew the sounds of their voices, and which was strongest. He knew which was most sadistic, and which one, even now, was smiling. In spite of that, he kept his back straight. He waited until the whispers stopped, then put on the suit and turned his mind to other things: a dark spot on the counter, a clock behind the chain-link. He buttoned his shirt to the collar, tied his tie as if it were Sunday.
“They’re gone.”
“What?”
“Those three.” The clerk gestured. “They’re gone.” The clerk’s face was narrow, his eyes unusually soft.
“Did I blank out?”
“Just for a few seconds.” The clerk looked away, embarrassed. “Like you went away.”
Adrian cleared his throat, but guessed the clerk was telling the truth. The world went dark sometimes. Time did strange things. “I’m sorry.”
The small man shrugged, and Adrian knew from looking at his face that those particular guards made a lot of lives miserable.
“Let’s get you out of here.” The clerk pushed a paper across the slick surface. “Sign this.” Adrian dashed his name without reading. The clerk thumbed three bills onto the counter. “This is for you.”
“Fifty dollars?”
“It’s a gift from the state.”
Adrian looked at it, thought, Thirteen years, fifty dollars. The clerk pushed the bills across the surface, and Adrian folded them into a pocket.
“Do you have any questions?”
Adrian struggled for a minute. Other than Eli Lawrence, he’d not spoken to another soul in a long time. “Is anyone here for me? You know … waiting?”
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know that.”
“Do you know where I might find a ride?”
“Cabs aren’t allowed at the prison. There’s a pay phone down the road at Nathan’s. I thought all you people knew that.”
“You people?”
“Ex-cons.”