Table of Contents
Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Yaw
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Every reasonable attempt has been made to identify owners of copyright. Errors or omissions will be corrected in subsequent editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Also available in Hardcover and eBook formats from Engine Books.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-938126-25-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935319
For Doug
Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?
—Jalal al-Din Rumi
Easy is the descent to the Lower World; but to retrace your steps and to escape to the upper air—this is the task, this is the toil.
—The Sibyl to Aeneas, The Aeneid
You, friend, will miss the most of me.
Moses doesn’t have the opportunity to count blessings very often, so when he walks into the mail room, the seasoned wood of the counters and the boxes used for sorting that have been here since the prison’s beginning a century and a half ago, the old, oiled smell of the room, and the light tickle of her citrusy perfume move him. She stands on the other side of the low wall. She wears her uniform. Institutional slacks, a conservative white shirt tucked in, comfortable rubber shoes that let her stand for hours. A fuzzy lavender fleece cardigan keeps her warm. Her hair, shoulder-length, blond, soft and curled, is lightened by whispers of white. She lights him up the way a mother does her child. Lila is an island Moses claimed for himself when he was lucky enough to get transferred from laundry fourteen years ago.
“I’m glad you’re here, Moses,” she says, “We’re all backed up.”
She smiles. He grins. She pulls a brown paper package off the sorting table where she works, opening letters, removing contraband. “Surprise for you,” she says.
It’s no surprise. Moses has been waiting weeks. She brings him the box and, breaking protocol, hands him the letter opener only she uses. Like a kid who won’t rip the wrapping, he slices along the edges of the box and makes clean cuts. When he’s done he hands the opener back to her, and before he opens the box, she walks back to her sorting table and locks the letter opener in a drawer.
Moses waits for her to get back to his side before he flips up the top and looks in. He removes the bubble wrap and takes out his new glasses. They are in a brown faux leather slipcase. Attached to them is an envelope. It says, Please Read Carefully. He places the envelope on the table next to the box.
He’s not up on fashion since he’s been inside for thirty years, but he’s sure these glasses are ugly. Medium brown, solid plastic. The lenses are trapezoids with rounded edges; the nosepiece has an opening that shows the space between the eyebrows.
“Let’s see them on,” she says.
He’s embarrassed. Moses has always taken care of himself. Keeps fit and has always known he has a good look. His dark hair is slicked off his face. He could always get a girl with a sideways glance—he has that kind of eyes. He keeps his fresh mouth open in an irreverent