Elliott narrows his eyes at me as he sets my tray on my sink. “You tryin’a guilt-trip me, handsome? ’Cause I ain’t fallin’ for it.”
“No. I just know you guys didn’t exactly sign up for this,” I say, repeating his drunken words from last night. “But hey, at least you won’t have to do it much longer. Now that they’re televising the sentencings, I’m sure you’ll get some acting work soon.”
Elliott steps back out of my cell and closes the door with a loud clang. He can’t look at me until he wipes the flattered smirk off his face.
What a shit actor.
“When you said, ‘All rise,’ in the courtroom yesterday … I got chills, man. Didn’t even sound like you.”
Elliott purses his lips to keep from smiling as he rests a hand on the billy club hanging from his utility belt. “I’m just tryin’a shine. That’s all.”
“Well, good fuckin’ job.” I stand up and grab the tray off the sink by the door.
“Pssh.” Elliott drops his eyes and waves me off, but he doesn’t leave.
We’re only about three feet apart now, separated by a few dozen metal bars.
“For real,” I say, going in for the kill. “You know, I have some friends in the TV industry. Maybe they’ll notice you tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be watching my … you know.”
Elliott’s face falls.
“I would offer to put in a good word for you, but I’m sure you’re not allowed to let me talk to anyone. Or maybe you can. I mean … it’s not like there are any laws anymore.”
“Nice try, handsome, but no laws means that the chief can skin me alive and wear me like a Gucci fedora if he wants to, so ixnay on the calling your friends-ay.”
I shrug. It’s not like I have anyone to call anyway. I just want him to think I have something he wants.
“Why you tryin’a help me anyway? You know I can’t let you go.”
“I don’t know, man. I’ve got, like, eighteen hours to live. It couldn’t hurt to do somethin’ nice for somebody before …”
“Before you meet your maker.”
I clench my jaw and nod.
“Well, for what it’s worth”—Elliott glances up at the camera at the end of the hall and turns his back to it, finishing his thought under his breath while he locks my cell—“anybody who walks the Green Mile already got themselves a one-way ticket into the pearly gates, as far as I’m concerned.”
Elliott pockets his key and steps away from the bars. Using his normal volume and level of sarcasm, he says, “Eat up, buttercup. I’ll be back for that tray in half an hour.”
“Thanks, man,” I say in a tone as low and sincere as the one he used ten seconds ago.
Then, as soon as he’s gone, I shovel the gruel he brought me into my mouth in about three angry bites. I can’t tell if it’s oatmeal or grits or regurgitated fucking Cream of Wheat, and I don’t really give a shit. I have eighteen hours to con, fight, or fucking dig my way out of here.
I’m gonna need all the energy I can get.
Rain
I don’t know how many times in the last few weeks that I’ve woken up and had no idea where I was. I’ve woken up in my tree house, in a tree house inside of an abandoned bookstore, on the floor in my bathroom, on the floor of an abandoned mall, in Carter’s bed, and even tied up in my own garage. It usually only takes me a second or two to remember where I am and how I got there, but as I stare into the absolute darkness on this particular morning, I got nothing.
Not until I try to stretch.
My hands and feet don’t get more than a foot away from my body before they’re stopped by immovable walls. My eyes go wide as I reach out in front of me and hit a ceiling that’s just as close. My heart begins to race, and my lungs stop working altogether as I pat and slap and thrash against the box I’m locked inside of.
I kick the roof of my prison, hearing a metallic bang with every blow.
Then, I hear a similar banging coming from the other side.
“Help!” I scream, kicking harder. “I’m trapped! Help!”
“Pull the handle, dumbass!” a familiar voice calls back through the steel.
Handle?
Handle!
I reach up and feel around until I find a cord with a plastic grip attached. Then, I pull it as hard as I can. The trunk lid pops open, and morning sunlight blinds me as the events of last night come back in a rush—getting a ride from the Bonys to the capitol, getting swarmed by junkies and dealers and prostitutes as soon as they left, deciding to hide in the trunk of a wrecked Dodge Charger so that I could actually get some sleep.
Guess it worked.
As I sit up and stretch my arms over my head, I groan in appreciation. My muscles feel the kind of sore that only comes from a really good night’s sleep.
The gold dome of the capitol building looms over Lamar’s head as a steady stream of homeless, strung-out Atlantans shuffle past us on the sidewalk. Quint fits right in as he walks over from the busted blue Toyota he spent the night in. He’s been wearing the same clothes since April 23, his once-tightly-cropped hair is overgrown and matted, and for the first time in his life, he has a beard.
“Gotdamn, woman.” Lamar chuckles. “It’s, like, ten in the mornin’. I was about to bust in there to make sure you wasn’t dead.”
“Not dead yet.” I yawn. “How’d you guys sleep?”
“Like shit,” Quint and Lamar complain in unison.
Quint rolls his neck, careful not to stretch the side with the bandage too far, as Lamar sits down on the bumper next to me.
“Next time we decide to sleep in abandoned cars,” he huffs, “I’m
