No one else visits for a long time. I can’t
believe they’ve already forgotten about us, but maybe with
everything else going on, we’ve slipped their minds. I wonder how
Dylan’s doing, my poor baby boy. Crying himself hoarse for me, that
makes me livid, I’m going to hurt that Ramsey for hitting him. I
love you, I think, imagining my words a telepathic projection
that breaks through these walls of steel and finds him, envelops
him, comforts him. I imagine him lying curled up on his bunk,
baleful and bitter, and then my thoughts cover over him like a
blanket, warm him, smooth out the lines that crease his forehead,
the pout that tugs at his lips. I love you. I can almost
hear his reply. Me too, baby. I love you, too.
I don’t move. I hope whoever’s in the
guardroom is watching me
