Once they disappeared inside, I pulled out my phone and opened my text messages. Found my sister’s name.
Ugh, so I’m here taking Yu to see that piece of shit…
I hoped they didn’t take too long inside.
11
PRIME
I watched the guard at the security checkpoint eyeball my license like it was a counterfeit Picasso. His eyes flicked between my face and the ID, brows furrowed in concentration so deep you’d think he was trying to solve quantum physics.
“Banks? Like the mayor?” He squinted at me, his double chin rippling.
“Yeah. Like the mayor.” My jaw tightened. I hated that connection. Hated that Vivica’s name still followed me like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
The guard handed back my ID, then looked down at Yusef, who was shifting nervously beside me. The kid’s eyes were darting around the room, taking in the metal detectors, the armed guards, the general sense of despair that clung to every surface like cheap cologne.
“He on the approved visitor list?” The guard’s fingers clacked against his keyboard.
“Should be. Yusef Ali.”
Yusef looked up at me, his eyes wide behind those glasses. The bruise on his cheek seemed darker under the harsh fluorescent lights, and something in my chest tightened. This kid was too smart, too gentle for the world he was living in. Irecognized that look—the same one I used to see in the mirror before Vivica and prison beat it out of me.
“Empty your pockets into the tray,” the guard instructed, sliding a plastic bin toward us. “No phones, no electronics, no weapons, no contraband.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, tossing it into the bin along with my keys and watch. Yusef followed suit, emptying his pockets—just some change and a small chess piece he’d been fidgeting with.
“That too,” the guard pointed at Yusef’s glasses.
Yusef hesitated, then carefully removed them, placing them in the tray. Without them, he looked younger, more vulnerable, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted.
“Arms out,” another guard instructed, stepping forward with a metal-detecting wand. I spread my arms wide, watching as he passed the device over my body. It beeped near my belt buckle.
“Just the belt,” I explained. The guard nodded, moving on to Yusef, who mimicked my stance perfectly, arms stretched out like he was preparing for flight.
The wand passed over him without incident, but the guard patted him down anyway, clinical and thorough. I could see Yusef’s discomfort in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he held his breath.
“You’re good,” the guard finally said, stepping back. “Collect your belongings and proceed through the door. No physical contact with inmates except at the beginning and end of your visit. Keep your hands visible at all times.”
We retrieved our stuff, Yusef quickly putting his glasses back on, looking relieved to have his vision restored. I placed my hand on his shoulder as we walked through the heavy metal door that buzzed open for us.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
He nodded, but I could feel the tension in his small frame. “Is it always like this?”
“Pretty much,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “Just stay close to me.”
We followed a correctional officer down a long corridor, our footsteps echoing against concrete floors. The walls were institutional beige, scuffed from years of bodies brushing against them. The air smelled like industrial cleaner and sweat.
“First time visiting?” the CO asked Yusef, his tone surprisingly gentle.
“Yes, sir,” Yusef answered, his manners impeccable even when nervous.
“Just follow the rules and you’ll be fine, young man.”
We were led into a large room filled with small tables bolted to the floor. Other visitors were already seated—women with children, elderly parents, a few girlfriends or wives dressed in their Sunday best. Everyone trying to bring a little dignity to an undignified situation.
“Table twelve,” the CO pointed. “Your father will be brought in shortly.”
