“Another one of them ‘you’re free’ jokers, hey?” Zed asked. “Don’t that just beat all, boys? We sit here year after year; he pops in, and lickety-split he tells us, ‘You’re free.’ ”

Gordy, his brown britches cinched at his narrow waist and his long handcuff chain dangling, moved over suspiciously. He looked at the open door, then me, then the others. Gordy slowly put one foot out of the cell and waited tensely. When nothing happened, he put the other foot out.

“It’s true, Zed. Look, I’m standing outside. I’m a free man!”

Zed kept his back to Gordy and the jail door.

“You may think so, Gordy, but I reckon I know when a door’s locked or not. Been here twenty-five years, remember? Ain’t much, but it’s home; it’s where the likes of us belong. You know as much. Fella learns not to believe these quick-fix artists that come along and say, ‘You’re free,’ like everything’s all right, just like that. Ain’t it so, Roy?”

Roy just kept playing solitaire.

“Roy, the door’s open,” Gordy said. “Come on out.” Roy didn’t look up.

Gordy stretched and jumped up to a tree limb, then started climbing, all smiles despite his handcuffs.

“I walked the red road years ago,” he said. “But things happened, and I ended up in this jail. I owe you big time, mister. Thanks for unlocking it.”

“But I didn’t do anything, it was already …”

He dropped down from the tree and put his outstretched handcuffed arms around my neck and gave me a tight hug, which was more than a little uncomfortable.

He laughed, then swung the gate open and shut. “Look, boys,” he called. They still wouldn’t look, so I went to Zed and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Been here twenty-five years, did I mention that, partner? Everybody knows me in these parts. Ol’ Zed. Roy, his pappy and grandpappy both spent most their lives in this jail. He knows he’s stuck here. No use fighting a losing battle.”

Zed babbled on and on. I kept trying to interrupt, to come up with a new and more compelling way to deliver the simple message: “The door’s open—you’re free!”

When nothing else worked, I decided to drag Zed out. He fought me off, as if I were trying to put him in jail instead of take him out. I felt like I was wrestling a greased pig. He kept giving me the slip, using his cuffed hands to ward me off. Finally I gave up and sat down, getting back my breath.

“I don’t get it,” I said, hearing the frustration in my own voice. “If you stay here, you’ll die in jail. Needlessly. Is that what you want?”