Her voice calms me down.
And so does her touch.
I don’t even realize we landed until everyone gets up and she lets go of my hand.
I look around, not knowing what is happening, but then she gets up, too.
“Are we there already?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says, casually as if nothing had happened. I just sit there and stare at her.
A smirk fights its way onto her face.
She knows how to regulate me.
We check into our rooms at the airport hotel, and since I have much more packed than she does, she takes the Pelican bag withthe lab equipment, and I take my trunk. We meet outside the room with the pelican bag, get a rental car, and head to Coleman.
I drive. I refuse to get into a car with someone else driving for the same reasons I avoid airplanes whenever possible, because I am, indeed, a control freak, as she so nicely phrased it.
“Yaaay, brainscans,” she says with her arms up as we pull up in the prison’s parking lot, and I have to genuinely laugh as I shake my head.
We are checked thoroughly. As thoroughly as our equipment. We have to sign several documents before we’re escorted to the medical wing, where the oversight and prison director await us.
Amelie switches into a different person from the one she is with me. Professional, less cheeky, straightforward, even harsh, and a tad protective, especially with the men around me,
“We are dealing with murderers and all sorts of very trained criminals here,” says the director, and Amelie draws herself up. “Two fragile women are breakfast for some of them; have that in mind.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would stop referring to women as fragile,” she says clearly. “Because the last time I checked, I neutralized 300 pounds of flesh within thirty seconds.”
“Is that so?” asks the Director arrogantly.
“Would you like a demonstration?” Amelie asks provocatively as she steps in front of me. She might not notice it, but I do. The slip. Right now, I see the real Amelie. With an attitude. The one she tries so hard to hide.
But before the moment escalates, the first inmate arrives. Amelie’s focus snaps to the escort, and she is back to her baseline, professional, and efficient.
We are occupied the entire afternoon, reaching into the evening. When we’re back at the hotel, after an hour drive without a single word passing between us, I tell her I’ll go to bedearly and close the door behind me. I fall onto the bed. I am exhausted.
I don’t even order room service. I just fall asleep right where I am.
The next morning, I feel more like myself again, and we rinse and repeat the previous day.
When we reach the hotel that evening, the receptionist tells us there is a hurricane warning, but the NOAA can’t say for sure whether it will hit the island or just the coast.
Wonderful. Of all the things that could happen, it had to be a hurricane. I am scared ot it. I don’t do well with unpredictable events.
“What are your experiences with hurricanes like that one? Is it likely it’ll hit?” I ask the man.
“It usually calms over land,” he says. “I wouldn’t be too worried. We’re used to them here. As long as there are no sirens, everything will be fine.”
So we get to the prison the next day, complete the final rounds of scans, and then spend the last day on the questionnaires. I ask the prison director about the storm, and he says it’s unlikely to get as far in, which calms my fear a bit.
The questionnaires are not only illuminating but also the most interesting gaze into the criminal mind I have ever gotten. Some of the inmates speak openly about their desires to inflict pain, their conflicts, and convictions.
Amelie is as excited about them as I am, and that evening we talk the entire way back in the car.
When I turn off the car in the parking lot, there is a moment of silence.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask.
