He comes at last, with a stifled groan as of relief Serena Joy, who has been holding her breath, expels it. The Commander, who has been propping himself on his elbows, away from our combined bodies, doesn’t permit himself to sink down into us. He rests a moment, withdraws, recedes, rezippers. He nods, then turns and leaves the room, closing the door with exaggerated care behind him, as if both of us are his ailing mother. There’s something hilarious about this, but I don’t dare laugh.

Serena Joy lets go of my hands. ‘You can get up now,’ she says. ‘Get up and get out.’ She’s supposed to have me rest, for ten minutes, with my feet on a pillow to improve the chances. This is meant to be a time of silent meditation for her, but she’s not in the mood for that. There is loathing in her voice, as if the touch of my flesh sickens and contaminates her. I untangle myself from her body, stand up; the juice of the Commander runs down my legs. Before I turn away I see her straighten her blue skirt, clench her legs together; she continues lying on the bed, gazing up at the canopy above her, stiff and straight as an effigy.

Which of us is it worse for, her or me?

From Hag-Seed

UNCEREMONIOUSLY OUSTED FROM his role as Artistic Director at the Makeshiweg Theatre Festival, Felix – or Mr. Duke, as he’s known – takes up a post teaching a Shakespeare theatre course at the Fletcher Correctional Institute. This year the play he chooses to direct and broadcast on the prison’s televisions is The Tempest. Afterwards, the prisoner/actors wonder, ‘What happens to Hag-Seed/Caliban after the end of the play?’ And we readers wonder: ‘What is freedom?’

FELIX STANDS BESIDE the whiteboard at the front of the large main room, facing this year’s class. Although he’s read the signup list and sent out the course packages – the playbook, the notes – he never knows ahead of time who will actually show up. There are always some dropouts, and thus some replacements from the waiting list. To his credit there’s always a waiting list. There can be absences for other reasons too. Transfers to other facilities, early paroles, injuries requiring infirmary time.

He scans the room. Familiar faces, veterans of his previous plays: these nod at him, offer half-smiles. New faces, blank or apprehensive: they don’t know what to expect. Lost boys all of them, though they are not boys: their ages range from nineteen to forty-five. They are many hues, from white to black through yellow, red, and brown; they are many ethnicities. The crimes for which they’ve been convicted are assorted. The one thing they share, apart from their imprisoned state, is a desire to be in Felix’s acting troupe. Their motives, he expects, are varied.