"I think I'm gonna propose to my girl when I get out!"
"Yeah? Good for you, man."
Carl's immaturity and nonstop energy always make him feel like a little brother. I think he senses it too. That's why he doesn't filter himself around me. Turns almost kid-like, beaming with excitement.
"Yeah." He takes a massive bite. "Shit, mostly beans today."
"That's okay." I follow with my own bite.
My stomach revolts instantly.
One thing's for sure: I've dropped weight in here. Came in at 220 pounds, and now my clothes hang loose. Probably lost 20 pounds these last few weeks alone, between the shitty food and nothing to do but work out.
"Alvarez," a guard's voice cuts through the chow hall like a blade, low but unmistakable behind me.
My stomach drops. Fork freezes halfway to my mouth. The burrito turns to lead in my gut. The guard is Rick, and he's brutal and harsh.
I stand slow, turning to face him. "Yes, sir."
"Finish up. You have a visitor."
The words hang there. Heavy. Final.
Visitor.
Now?
Heart kicks hard against my ribs. Could be my attorney with plea deal news. Could be Aunt Val's people. Could be the prosecutors deciding to bury me deeper. Maybe it's Diego?
Carl's watching me, smile gone, reading the shift in my face. "You good?"
"Yeah." Lie. My voice comes out steady, but my palms are sweating. "Gotta go."
I shove the rest of the burrito down fast. Beans or not, doesn't matter now. My tray clatters louder than it should when I dump it. The entire block's eyes track me as I follow the guard out, murmurs rippling behind.
Every step echoes too loud down the corridor. The metal door clangs shut. Fluorescent buzz drills into my skull. What if it's bad news? What if the consolidation fell through? What if they bumped it to premeditated? Life without parole. No chance to fix anything with her. No chance to see my family again.
My fingers flex at my sides. Breathe. One foot. Then the next.
The visitation room door swings open.
Empty chairs. Waiting.
CHAPTER 24
RAUL
…22 years old
Diego's coming by this morning, and sleep never showed up. I've been up half the night trying to figure out how to pitch this right. How to frame it so he sees the opportunity, not just the risk. How to make it sound like salvation instead of a death sentence.
I pull a long drag from one of Dad's cigarettes he left out on the counter. I only smoke when the pressure's crushing me, when I need something to dull the sharp edges. Stare into the blank TV screen, eyes unfocused, until I hear gravel crunching outside. His truck.
I don't move when the door opens. DJ walks in already tense. His shoulders tight, jaw set. He knows something's up.
"Morning," I say flat, still glued to the dead TV.
Fuck. My head feels like concrete. My heart even heavier.
