I’d never been to the zoo before. Hell, I’d never been on a field trip before. I was so fucking excited, but once we got there, all I felt was sad. These big, magical beasts—creatures I’d only ever seen on TV—were locked up in cages like criminals. They hardly moved. They ignored us completely. Even the lions, the kings of the fucking jungle, were just lying on rocks, waiting to die. Every motherfucker there had accepted their fate.
Except the fucking tiger.
The tiger was the only animal there who was in solitary confinement. And he was the only animal there who was pacing. Not lazy, I’m just gonna stretch my legs pacing, but fucking-head-down, eyes-on-the-prize, I’m gonna find a way out of this motherfucker pacing. He would do a lap around the perimeter of his cage, pushing on the Plexiglas walls with his body. Then, he would do figure eights around all the trees, which had been cut short to keep him from climbing out.
There was something different about him. Something that made him refuse to accept his circumstances, like the others. And now, I know what it was.
Somewhere out there, that motherfucker had a mate.
I could live in here quite fucking comfortably if Rain were locked up too. We could fuck and talk and feed each other and make fun of Elliott all goddamn day. But without her, I feel like that fucking tiger. I want to climb the walls. I want to scrape the mortar out from in between the cinder blocks with my bare hands. I want to rip the face off the next piece of shit who rattles my bars.
But unlike that tiger, I am gonna get the fuck out of here.
Because unlike that tiger, I’m not gonna let them know I’m restless.
If he had acted as lazy as the lions, those zookeepers might have gotten lazy too. Maybe let his trees grow a little too long. Maybe used a little less caution when they opened the door to feed him. An opportunity would have presented itself.
Which is exactly why I’m lying on my cot, staring at the ceiling, trying to act bored, when all I want to do is punch holes in the walls and wear a figure eight into the floor with my pacing.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
Hard-sole shoes approach, but they’re not the spirited footsteps of Officer Elliott. Nor are they the slow shuffles of Officer Hoyt. No, these punishing footsteps belong to someone angrier. Someone who must be picturing the faces of his mortal enemies on every unpolished floor tile. Someone with a gray buzz cut and a burgeoning beer gut.
Officer MacArthur appears outside my door with a scowl on his leathery face and the scent of cheap whiskey emanating from his pores.
“Parker,” he snaps, addressing me like I’m one of his soldiers.
But I don’t fucking salute.
“That’s me,” I deadpan, tucking my hands behind my head.
“I’m here to take you to the showers. The governor insists on the accused looking decent for the Green Mile.”
“Did you pull the short straw or somethin’?” I ask. “Why isn’t Elliott or Hoyt takin’ me?”
“That’s Officer Elliott and Officer Hoyt to you, son,” he growls. “And I’ll be taking you because the accused tend to get a little aggressive at this point in their sentence.”
“Ah,” I say, sitting up with a stretch. “So you’re the muscle, huh?”
“Step over to the door and place your hands through the bars.”
I do as he said, my movements as slow and despondent as a caged lion’s.
He clamps a pair of handcuffs around my wrists as tight as they’ll go before saying, “Now, stick your feet out, one at a time.”
I do that, too, watching for signs of intimidation or fear. He’s not shaking, not nervous. But he’s shackling me just as tightly as he cuffed me, which tells me I haven’t fully convinced him of my apathy.
I wait for him to unlock my door and marvel at how clear-eyed he seems for somebody who smells like the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam.
“You former military?” I ask as he guides me by the bicep into the hall.
He grumbles in response but eventually spits out, “Army. Special Forces.”
“No shit? That’s pretty badass, man. Were you, like, a paratrooper or something?”
“Sniper,” he mutters under his breath.
Sniper. My fists flex, and blood surges to my extremities. There’s only one thing they need a sniper for around here.
We walk past an open office door, and the image of my own face stops me in my tracks. There’s a monitor above the desk broadcasting the interview Rain did earlier. I watch myself lean against the bars, orange polyester from the neck down, poorly masked shock and awe from the neck up. The back of Rain’s head and a sliver of the side of her face are visible on the screen. I want to reach out and run my fingers through her slicked-back black hair as she stutters and stumbles over her first question to me.
“Mr. Parker—”
“Please, call me Wes.”
“Wes … how are you? I mean, in here. How are you holding up in here?”
My throat tightens at the sound of her shaky voice. On camera, she looks fucking amazing, but from where I was standing, she was all teary eyes and trembling hands.
And red fucking lips.
“How am I? I’m … I’m better than I was a few minutes ago.”
Mac coughs out a laugh and claps me on the shoulder. “Pretty smooth, boy. That replacement they got for Michelle Ling was a stone-cold fox, wasn’t she?” He tugs me by the arm down the hall, coughing and chuckling and coughing some more.
I grind my teeth and try to concentrate on keeping my breathing even. I want to put my fist through the guy’s face, but I can’t let him
