The ceilings are taller here, and cathedral style, in contrast to any of the other rooms I’ve seen. Thick wooden beams held in place by heavy bolts cross high above our heads, and a huge stone fireplace dominates the space. There are chairs and a couch, a coffee table, and some other furniture, all of it in heavy, dark wood. It’s beautiful, but a prison is still a prison, even if it looks like a minimalist interior designer built a Medieval Times restaurant.
“Hello, Ms. Dixon,” a chipper voice says behind me, and I turn to see another t****l, this one thankfully unarmed—as far as I can tell—and dressed like a normal person. She’s white, with a face that looks like what it feels like to get pinched, and peachy-blonde hair pulled back in a tight, low ponytail. “I’m Amanda. I’m here to help
