Page 1 of The Care of Broken Things
Chapter One
Rat’s Report
The handsomest man the prison had ever seen walked through the front door at 10:21 a.m. Almost exactly nine minutes later, Rat breezed into the library and announced, “You’ve been dethroned, princess.”
Samuel was re-reading Crime and Punishment. He didn’t like it much, but there weren’t many options. The “library” was a few plywood shelves in a displaced office that smelled like mold no matter what he did to clean it. Most of the books were how-to manuals or severely outdated mysteries. Still, he liked the library. It was quiet and let him get some writing done.
The problem with being “librarian” (a self-appointed position) was that anyone could come by to bother him the way Rat was doing.
“Either tell me or don’t.” He’d said that at least a hundred times over the last five years. “I’m not going to guess.” He hated guessing games. Certainty, in his experience, was better than surprise.
“Just dropped off a hottie. We’re talking prime beef here. I thought I’d give you a heads up so you can be first in line.”
“No thanks." It was what he always said. He found the concept of romance in general a waste of time. But between two prisoners? It was just a form of pretend built on loneliness and desperation, and he hated it—the drama, theinevitable falling-out, and the happiness so paper thin you could smell the fear through it.
“I’m not trying to set you up. I gave up onthata long time ago. But you’re going to want to take a look at this one.”
Samuel turned the page. Rat hated when he pretended to ignore him. The man threw up his hands. “Fine, but I’ll bet you my crossword you lose your mind the second you clap your eyes on this guy.”
He looked up. “The new one?”
Rat drove the prison van, and people were always leaving the paper in it. With at least a decade left on both of their sentences, neither Rat nor Samuel had much use for the news, but they both enjoyed the crossword, especially the Times crossword, and the warden gave it to Rat every Sunday. She’d probably have given it to Samuel instead if he’d asked for it, but his complicated relationship with Warden Cruces meant he’d rather pull out his own toenails than ask her a favor.
“Yup, haven’t even looked at it yet.”
Samuel set down his book. “And if you win?”
“Just the sweet, sweet pleasure of ‘I told you so.’”
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, an obnoxious habit he was getting too old for. “Where is he?”
“Still in the office. But you’d better hurry. Hottie’s sure to get out any second, and front-row seats are filling up quick.”
But he didn’t hurry, taking the time to wipe down some shelves first. Rat was bouncing from foot to foot by then, but that nervous rodent-like energy wasn’t the reason for his name. He’d been on a stint as a drug-carrying mule when a “friend” had ratted him out to authorities. The nickname made him sound more like perpetrator than victim though. Maybe that was why Rat was so vehement about telling the truth—a trait Samuel appreciated. He had more than a little obstinate honesty inhimself.
Even as they arrived at the office, Samuel wasn’t thinking about the prisoner, already looking forward to a quiet session in the yard with the crossword—just what he needed to make up for the commissary running out of peanut butter. Unexplained dry runs happened all the time, and Frank, the commissary guy, never had explanations. Luckily, Samuel still had a couple of jars tucked away in his little pantry, though it was heavily rationed. He was trying to calculate just how many spoonfuls he could have a day (out of jars that contained twenty-six servings) when every thought dropped out of his head.
“Afternoon,” the new god of his life said.
He was taller than Samuel, already a rarity, and black as the cocoa nibs Jenny sometimes sent in his care packages. He was also extraordinarily, impossibly beautiful.
“If you’ve come to show him around, forget it,” said CO Mathews. His doughy body was partially blocking the prison god, something Samuel was both thankful for and annoyed at. The correctional officer was rooting through his ring of keys with the standard inefficiency of most prison staff. He passed the right key twice before stopping to put it into the gate. “Warden gave me strict orders to settle him myself. You pack of animals will tear him apart as soon as my back is turned, that’s for sure.”
For once, the man was right. There was no way the prison could accommodate such a man. The six months Samuel had added to his own sentence was evidence of that. He’d bashed in every face that had so much as glanced at him until the whole prison (including its staff) had learned he was one piece of ass that wasn’t worth the price. And this new guy was even prettier than he was. He evensmelledamazing, like coffee and coconut and freshly cleaned laundry.
He kept his hands firmly planted against the bare concrete.
“Wow.” Rat’s voice was too sudden in the wake of the prison god’s presence. “I’m not sure I evenwantto say I told you so. Are you going to be okay?”
He barely heard him, his eyes pinned to the newcomer’s back. Orange was a hideous color. He’d always thought so, but it had no power over the prison god. The man’s skin was so dark and lush—almostglowing—that it warmed the light wherever it touched him.
“To be honest, I wasn’t expecting this much. A laugh, maybe.”
“Shut up.”
He spoke without quite meaning to. His thoughts, his heart, everything was racing. It was horrifically unpleasant, and still he found himself trailing after CO Mathews in time to see the newcomer’s reception.
The cafeteria wasn’t just a cafeteria. When meals weren't given, it also doubled as the rec hall, so he both heard and felt that wall of sound as he approached. But as the prison god stepped into its harsh fluorescent lighting, it was like a blanket settled itself over the general noise, muffling—nearly silencing it. The difference was so stark that even Mathews, who had seen everything in his 17 years as a correctional officer, was unnerved. Only the prison god was unfazed. He raised a hand toward the general assembly and spoke.
