Hard Time Read Free Page B

split between his hands, paused midshuffle. Some of the men wore navy scrub tops and bottoms, some navy tee shirts, a few white undershirts. This man wore a tee, with
COUSINS
stenciled on the front, above the number 802267. Those digits imprinted on my brain, burned black as a brand.
    He watched me.
    But not the way the others did.
    If he was trying to picture me naked, his poker face was strong, though his attention anything but subtle. His entire head moved as I passed through his domain, but his eyes were languorous. Lazy and half-lidded, yet intense. A hundred looks in one. I didn’t like it. Couldn’t read it. At least with the horny jerk-offs, I knew where I stood.
    I wondered what the worst thing you could do and still only get sent to a medium-security prison was.
    I hoped not to ever learn the answer.
    And I hoped to heaven inmate 802267 hadn’t signed up for any of the day’s programs.

Chapter Two
    Once the day was actually underway, my panic eased some.
    I was in classroom B all morning—not unlike a schoolroom, though the painted cinderblock walls were windowless and posterless, and the vibe was grim.
    Four metal chairs were bolted into the concrete behind each of eight long tables in four rows, accommodating thirty-two men total, with an aisle down the middle. My chair was free moving, but no more comfortable than what the inmates were stuck with—the theme of the décor was
minimalist
. Minimal detachable pieces, minimal hardware. Minimal materials from which to fashion a weapon capable of stabbing me to death.
    Before the inmates arrived, an older officer took up his post by the door, hands clasped before him, back rod straight. John had introduced him as Leland. His mustache was steely gray, trimmed to the textbook profile of the top half of a hamburger bun.
I will not be fucked with,
that mustache told the world.
    The door was opened from the outside at two minutes of nine, and my heart leapt into my throat. I forced a smile. Forced a swallow. Forced my hands to stop shaking atop the primer set before me on my small, scuffed desk, and forced my knees to quit knocking.
    Inmates filed in, chatting and arguing. The class was full, every single chair, leading me to imagine Literacy Basics must have a waiting list. They came in all sizes and ages. Same navy blue uniforms. I didn’t spot 802267 among them.
    “Good morning,” I said. My voice was warbly. I could hear it, so they could hear it. There was nothing to be done about it.
    “I’m Ms. Goodhouse, the new outreach librarian from Darren Public Library. Welcome to Literacy Basics.” I took a deliberate breath to stop my words from racing. I wanted to shut my eyes, squint to blur their facial hair and tattoos and stenciled numbers so I could pretend they were teenagers, and that I was in a high school classroom.
    “I’m going to hand out some worksheets,” I said, giving stacks of four to the men in the first-row aisle seats. “Please pass them down.” I held my breath as I moved to the second row, but no one touched my butt. Eyes
everywhere
, and somebody muttered, “Southern gal,” but no hands. Third row. Fourth. I strode back to the front of the room, masking my relief.
    “This is an eight-week course. If I cover material you’re already familiar with, please consider it a refresher. The lessons will intensify as the weeks go on. All right? Now, does anyone here not know the alphabet?”
    No one replied or raised their hand, and I had no choice but to assume they were being truthful.
    “Excellent. We’re going to begin with basic phonics. Phonics is a way of learning to read and write by listening to the sounds of words . . .”
    My brain detached from my mouth—I’d given this intro many times before, having worked as a lower-grade substitute teacher and private tutor through much of grad school.
    It was deeply weird, though. Saying all this stuff to full-grown, incarcerated men, not antsy kids.
    As the lesson progressed, some