Thank God he awoke, screaming but at least awake, to discover his arms were still whole but red and swollen, as was most of his body. The image of his skin bursting cemented in his mind and flashed at him whenever the itch started up. If he ever recovered, he’d remove those tattoos to wipe that fucking memory for good.

But as the doc promised, his body and system finally settled.

Six months later the doctor informed him—in the same office he’d been told he’d die—that the stem cells had done their job. His blood cell count had returned to nearly normal.

He was required to down a shitload of tablets and they also had to re-immunize him with all his childhood shots because technically his blood was brand new.

Out with the old and in with the baby-fresh white cells.

Even his blood type changed.

He was A+ before. Now he was A-.

A handy thing should he wish to commit another crime. They wouldn't find him looking for his blood type on record. If he ever left this hole this was certainly worth consideration.

Nine months to the day he’d received the transplant, Alan was feeling pretty damn good. He’d cheated death, cheated the little witch’s evil stare, and he was optimistic that in conquering this shit, there was nothing that couldn’t be beaten.

Entering the exercise yard, for the first time since his ordeal, he felt lucky. His mood was so high he felt he could take on anyone or anything. He was the King of Good Fortune.

The sun shone in a cloudless sky like the world agreed with his conclusion. In the distance he thought he heard birds singing.

What a day to be alive.

He'd spoken to his attorney earlier in the week. Weasel Face sounded optimistic they’d secure a hearing on his sentence. Supposedly his trial judge “erred” in not giving due consideration to Alan’s mental health and his cancer.

“Mitigating circumstances,” Weasel-Face said.

The theory he’d floated to the courts was that his undiagnosed-at-the-time cancer provided a contributing factor to his mood and loss of control.

Just what Alan had always said.

He wasn't to blame. Those bitches caused all the trouble, especially the weirdo kid with the creepy-evil eye and her little green book of whatever. When he apologized to her, he’d made a mistake.

She should have apologized to him.

As he walked toward a group of what he loosely called his friends, he noted a workman on the roof just above the yard. You couldn’t miss him. Two guards trained their beady eyes on the guy as if he was about to plant a bomb or break one of the guys out. He looked to be working on one of the exhaust fans that peppered the sloping roof of the rectangular block.

Alan was so chipper he tipped his hand to his forehead in the guy’s direction in a signal of admiration. Man, you couldn’t get him up to that height. Guys like that one must have steel balls.