BY THE TIME I ARRIVED at the Massachusetts Correctional Institute, my sister was waiting. I signed in, stuffed my purse in an available locker, then waited my turn to pass through security. Chris and Bob, two of the longtime corrections officers, greeted me by name. Bob passed his wand over my medical bracelet, same test he did the first Monday of each month. Then Maria, a third corrections officer, escorted me to the enclosed privacy room, where my sister sat with her cuffed hands on her lap.

Officer Maria nodded her consent and I entered the room. The eight-by-eight space contained two orange plastic chairs and one Formica wood table. Shana already sat on the far side of the table, back protected by the cinder-block wall, front taking in the view of the corridor through the single window. The gunslinger’s seat.

I claimed the chair opposite her, my own back exposed through the window to the passing masses. I took my time, pulling out the plastic chair, positioning my body just so. A minute passed. Then two.

My sister spoke first: “Take off the jacket.” Her tone was already agitated. Something had set her off, probably well before my visit, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be the one to pay the price.

“Why?” In contrast to her edgy command, I kept my own voice deliberately calm.

“You shouldn’t wear black. How many times do I have to tell you that? Black washes you out.”

This from a woman clad in drab blue scrubs, her shoulder-length brown hair hanging down in greasy hanks. My sister might have been pretty once, but years of harsh living conditions and fluorescent lighting had taken their toll. Not to mention the hard look in her eyes.

Now I removed my fitted Ann Taylor blazer and hung it over the back of my chair. Beneath it, I wore a long-sleeved gray knit top. My sister glared at my covered arms. Brown eyes boring into mine, she took a few experimental sniffs.

“Don’t smell any blood,” she said at last.

“You don’t have to sound disappointed.”

“Please. I spend twenty-three hours a day staring at the same ass-white cinder-block walls. Least you could do is bring me a paper cut.”

My sister claimed she could smell the pain I couldn’t feel. There was no scientific basis for this, just sisterly superiority. And yet on three separate occasions, within hours of leaving her, I’d discovered injuries she’d already warned me about.

“You should wear fuchsia,” Shana continued. “You’re the one living on the outside. So live a little, Adeline. Then maybe you can bring me some real stories. No more job, patients, pain practice, blah, blah, blah. Tell me about some hard-bodied guy ripping a fuchsia bra from your bony chest. Then I might actually enjoy these monthly meetings. Can you even have sex?”

I didn’t answer. She’d asked this question many times before.