The prison is called the Piston because it’s visible from the city center of New Prima, and it looks like a grotesque black cylinder that clashes with the rest of their buildings.
The guards parade me inside, past the inmates in cellblock A. They’re two to a small cell with bunk beds, a toilet, and sink, and there are eight floors of them. It’s not much different than any prison I’ve imagined or seen on television.
But the fact that I’m here, in restraints, about to be put into a cell, makes my skin feel cold and clammy.
A few inmates call out to me as we pass, a few more whistle, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t be housed with the general prison population. I’ll be in a solitary cell, where they keep the worst kind of prisoners, the ones who are a danger to others, and the ones they want to forget.
We go up one flight of stairs and turn the corner. We’re heading down a long hallway toward cellblock S, the solitary cells, and my shoulders relax just a little. Every small thing that goes right means I have a better chance of getting out of here.
According to Barclay, solitary confinement is small. There are sixteen cells, eight on each side, with low ceilings and thick black walls. There are no bars because there are no windows.
When we turn into cellblock S, I see that Barclay is right.
I also see that we’re not alone.
03:22:05:08
The fifth cell door on the left is ajar. The opening is blocked by a man who isn’t in a guard uniform. He’s wearing jeans and a drab olive button-down shirt. His haircut is military, high and tight. A tattoo of black barbed wire peeks out from his shirt collar and climbs up his neck.
A shiver moves through my body and air seems to get caught in my throat. His shirt is spotted with dark blobs.
Something inside me wants to stop, to dig my heels in and refuse to get any closer.
Then I hear the muffled sounds of a struggle coming from inside the cell, and I realize the dark spots on his shirt are blood.
My heart pounds harder in my chest. I don’t want to be anywhere near this man.
“Hurry up,” he says to whoever’s in the cell. “Get him out.”
That cell shouldn’t be Elijah’s. Unless he’s been moved? No, why would they?
My guards continue to push me forward, and the man with blood on his shirt turns to watch us approach. His eyes linger on me, and I have to fight to keep from looking away. The bitter smell of urine hits me like a wall, and fear slithers through my veins until I’m dizzy with it. Then comes the rusty, damp smell of blood.
The man is still studying me, his face passive and emotionless, and it feels like with one look he’s seen more about me than I want him to. The hallway is tight and he doesn’t move, so we have to squeeze by him. The whole time he’s watching me.
One of the guards says, “Excuse me, Mr. Meridian,” as we pass.
I steal a glance inside the open door and the whispered word slips out with my breath before I can stop myself. “Ben.”
He’s inside the cell. His hair is matted against the side of his face with dried blood, his cheek is bruised and swollen. My breath catches in my throat, and I refuse to move forward with the guards. There are too many emotions rolling through me to try to process them all. They’ve beaten him—I don’t want to know how many times—and then just tossed him back in his cell to sleep it off. But he’s here. I can try to get him out with Elijah.
But when he raises his head and our eyes meet, I realize I’m wrong. This isn’t Ben. He has the same dark hair, the same bone structure, the same deep-set eyes. But this guy’s face is just slightly different.
Ben’s brother, Derek.
He grunts and says something. We’ve never met, and I’ve only seen his doppelgänger, but I know that it’s him. He’s Ben, a few years older, swollen and beat up, in need of a shower and a shave.
The guard to my right squeezes his fingers into my upper arm and pushes me forward. I twist around and try to see behind me, but the guards block my line of sight, pushing and dragging me to the cell that will be mine—the last one on