Font Size:
Between me and the fight.
“I’ll go,” she says.
My chest tightens.
“But you’re not leaving me.”
I stare at her.
“I don’t do prison visits.”
She holds my gaze.
There’s something new there now.
Not uncertainty.
Not distance.
Trust.
“You’re not visiting,” she says.
And before I can stop her—
Before I can argue—
Before I can choose anything else—
She opens the door.
33
Lark
Location: In Transit — Police Vehicle
Time: Later
They’re polite.
That’s how you know it’s serious.
No cuffs.
No force.
No raised voices.
Just distance.
Carefully maintained.
Like I’m something fragile.
Or dangerous in a way they don’t fully understand.
The door shuts with a soft, final click.
