The CO snorted. “Miss Ruby thinks she’s Queen of Coolis because she’s been in prison a long time, at Dwight eight years before they opened this place. She cut her husband into little pieces and put him in different garbage cans around Chicago, claimed it was self–defense if you can believe that, but the judge didn’t buy it and gave her thirty years. Now she’s a churchgoer, and the lieutenants and some of the CO’s treat her like she’s holy. And she has a lot of influence on the young girls, so it doesn’t pay to go up against her.”

We had reached my wing. The CO signaled to the guard behind the control panel to let me through. She stood on one side of the airlock and watched it close around me. When the door on the other side opened to decant me onto my floor, she took off again.

The wing had a shower room in between the cell block and the guard station. I knew the guards had cameras trained on the showers, and they also could come in on unannounced inspection, but I needed to rinse off my sweat and blood: Angie had given me some pretty serious bumps. When you’re in the middle of a fight—or game, for that matter—you don’t notice the cuts and blows. It’s only later, when the adrenaline is wearing off, that you start to ache.

I didn’t have any soap. I had learned this morning that even the most basic toilet items like toothbrushes and shampoo had to be purchased from the commissary and that I had to have money deposited in a trust account at the prison before I could buy anything. It was a nice little racket, like a company store for sharecroppers. You’re there, you’re a captive market, and they can charge you whatever they damned well want. Even if my five remaining dollars would have covered the cost of basic toiletries, I was told I couldn’t open my trust account until after the holiday weekend.

I dried myself with the threadbare square of gray toweling I’d been issued when I arrived yesterday and put my pants back on. They smelled pretty unpleasant, but at least they fit.