Page 4 of Cry for Help

Susan brushed her hands against her pencil skirt as she stood up, grabbing the pamphlet from the warden's desk.

She scoffed in disgust. “Our prisons are full. Too much of the taxpayer's money is pumped into our prison system without much to show for it. Instead of rehabilitation and drug programs to keep people out of jail, they’ve decided to throw people to the demons. It’s cheaper.” She shuddered. “The pamphlet won’t tell you the truth. You’ll be free to walk about, shower without fifty other women, or eat food that isn’t slop. But demons aren’t kind masters. They’re ruthless.”

I knew all of that.

I probably knew more about demons than she did.

“But...” Susan winced. “I put your name forward.”

My eyes widened, and I couldn’t keep the betrayal from my face.

Sometimes being mute sucked because I wanted to ream the doctor out for sticking her nose into my affairs.

“I don’t want you to die, Maddie.” Susan looked away. “I don’t know if you killed your foster family. I’ve been your doctor for five years, and I still don’t know. I know that you deserve a chance to live, even for a little while. You’ve been behind bars since the moment you turned eighteen. I don’t want you to die.”

The doctor crumpled the pamphlet in her fist, startled when she looked down at the rumbled paper as if returning to herself.

I didn’t want to die.

But living?

I wasn’t sure how to do that either.

The sun beat down on the crackled asphalt, and heat waves rose off the bend in the road.

The air conditioning was broken, and my jumpsuit was sodden, clinging to my skin. The back of my arms stuck to the pleather seats, and the chain around my wrists yanked me to the side every time the driver turned too fast.

A single guard, Rodriguez, in charge of ten female inmates.

Until I came to Sandy Village Women’s Correctional Facility, I’d never stepped foot in Nevada. I’d been born in Portland and lived there most of my life. Going from wet and cloudy Oregon to dry and arid Nevada hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time—I was going to prison and had the theory it wasall the same. A prison was a prison, right?

Wrong.

Heat. Dry air. Sweltering, sweating, and smotheringheatclung to every breath. I hadn’t filled my lungs since the moment I’d set foot in Sandy Village. A decade hadn’t been enough to get used to the oppressive heat.

There were ten of us in total. Five from death row sporting the gunmetal gray jumpsuits. No doubt, the death row inmates had several appeals that went nowhere and had opted for the Red City instead.

I knew the other four inmates by name, though I wouldn’t have said we were friends. Making friends was difficult when mute. At best, I had non-threatening acquaintances. Of which my current companions were not.

Though we were all chained, I kept my eye on Inmate Thomas—a woman with a full face of prison makeup. She’d stolen my shampoo when I first came to the prison, which seemed to be her MO. Loud, proud, and unable to keep her mouth shut, Inmate Thomas was my opposite. Though I wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing. We both seemed to get into trouble the same amount regardless of how many words we spoke.

“Hey! Pretty Boy!” Thomas whooped. “Are we there yet?”

“Pipe down, Thomas!” Rodriguez , the guard, backed.

“Make me!” She sat back, grinning.

The guard scoffed but did nothing.

I fell asleep sitting upright.

We stopped for gas, but no one was allowed off the bus.

We were given a small cup of water when we crossed state lines into California.

I’d never been to California before, and my heart hurt when I realized I’d never be able to see the Golden Gate Bridge or the Hollywood Sign.

When I’d been a surly teenager, carrying my belongingsin a trash bag from one foster home to another, one thought had gotten me through.

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