Illinois seems like a large place when you look at a map, stretching four hundred miles from Wisconsin to Missouri, but it’s really just a cozy little hometown, where everybody knows everybody else and nobody tells secrets outside the family. Businesses pay money to politicians to get even greater amounts of money pumped back to them via state contracts, and while some of it may be scuzzy, none of it’s illegal—because the guys who have their hands in one another’s pockets are writing the laws.

The prison stood two miles west of town; scraggly strip malls had grown up along the route. Signs warned drivers against hitchhikers, since they might be escaped prisoners and should be considered dangerous. Women like Nicola Aguinaldo, for instance, might bleed all over you; that would be bad.

Even Mr. Contreras grew quiet when we passed the front gate. Three layers of high fencing, with razor wire along the tops and current running through the outermost, separated us from the prison. It looked in some ways like a modern industrial park, with its low white buildings laid out in a kind of campus—except that the windows were mere slits, like the arrow holes in a medieval castle. Also like a castle, watchtowers holding armed guards covered the perimeter. A kind of reverse castle, where the guards thought the enemy lay within rather than without.

Although the land around the prison was dotted with wildflowers and trees, inside what wasn’t concrete had become hardscrabble from too many marching feet and too little care. In the distance we could see some women playing what might be softball; as they ran they kicked up dust eddies.

“Umph.” Mr. Contreras let out a grunt after I turned around and headed back into town. “If you wasn’t desperate before you landed in that place, you sure would be after you’d been there a day or two. If that didn’t cure you of a life of crime nothing would.”

“Or it would get you feeling so hopeless you’d feel you didn’t have any choices.” My neighbor and I do not think as one on most social issues, but that doesn’t stop his wanting to be involved in helping me tilt at whatever windmill I’m charging on a given day.

The hospital lay inside the town boundary, off the main road leading to the prison. Behind it ran Smallpox Creek, flowing northwest to the Mississippi, although not at any great pace. We let the dogs out again to cool off in the water, then checked the side roads around the hospital. Just as my maps had shown, you could either go directly to jail or into town from the hospital, but you didn’t have any other choice for escape than the creek. After driving the route long enough to memorize it we returned to the hospital and parked.