On Sunday afternoon a guard took me down there for my hour of recreation. It was a multipurpose room, with an exercise area separated from the entertainment unit simply by a difference in floor—green linoleum for the common room, bare concrete for exercise. The entertainment side included a television set attached to the wall and a long deal table with cards, checkers, and some jigsaw puzzles. A handful of women were watching some inane game show, turned to top volume, while three others yelled ribald insults at each other over a game of hearts.

I went to the exercise area to work the worst knots out of my shoulders and legs. The room didn’t have much in the way of equipment, but it did have a basketball hoop and ball. I began shooting. At first my shoulders resisted and I had trouble making my hook shot, but after a while the muscles loosened up and I got into a rhythm. Shooting baskets is a narcotizing, private kind of routine. Dribble, shoot, retrieve the ball, dribble, shoot, retrieve. I began to relax for the first time since Friday afternoon. The blare of the television and the shouted insults of the women playing cards receded.

“You’re pretty good.” One of the women in front of the television had turned around to watch me.

I grunted but didn’t say anything. I play most Saturdays through the winter with a group of women who’ve been together for fifteen years. Some of the young ones were in tough collegiate programs—I’ve had to get better to keep in the game with them—but mostly I play for the pleasure of feeling my body move through space.

“Play you one–on–one,” she persisted. “Dollar a point.”

“Play you one–on–one for nothing,” I panted, not breaking stride. “I don’t have one thin dime in my possession.”

“No shit?” she demanded. “Your family, they haven’t sent you nothing for a prison account?”

“No shit. Anyway, I only got here yesterday.” I jumped up and pulled an errant shot off the backboard.

She got off the couch and came to stand next to me. Other women in the room urged us to a game: “Come on, Angie, she can give you a real game for a change.” “No way, my money’s on Angie.” “Not me, I been watching Cream there, I put five bucks on Cream.” I noticed my cellmate on the fringes of the crowd, shivering and rubbing her arms.