Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead — flickering slightly — casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that made people look paler, older, defeated.
Metal tables were bolted to the floor.
Chairs were welded to the ground.
Families sat across from inmates separated by thick Plexiglas barriers that distorted reflections and muffled sound.
Guards walked the aisles slowly.
Their boots clicked against the floor.
Hands rested casually on holstered weapons.
Eyes scanned constantly.
Nothing here was accidental.
Nothing here was safe.
We were directed to table 17.
Yannis and I sat down on the cold steel bench.
The chill of it seeped through my clothes almost immediately.
Yannis had grown taller over the past months — almost reaching my shoulder now.
He wasn’t the same child who used to run through hallways laughing loudly.
He was quieter.
More observant.
His hands rested in his lap, fingers fidgeting slightly with the hem of his shirt.
He didn’t sign anything.
He just stared at the heavy door at the far end of the room.
Waiting.
Around us, inmates were escorted in one by one.
Chains clinked loudly with every step.
Metal scraping against metal echoed through the hall.
A bulky man covered in full-sleeve tattoos shuffled past us.
His wrists were shackled.
His ankles bound.
A nervous-looking woman and a toddler sat behind the glass waiting for him.
He gave them a stiff nod.
The woman flinched when the chains rattled.
