As we drew closer to the end of the corridor, we heard faint noises—the clatter of a dish, a mumbled oath, the shuffle of feet on concrete. Then a softer sound, a voice. A supplication carried on a sob. Prayer.

We stepped into a single-level cell block unlike the earlier ones. At the ice rink, I’d reveled in the sensation of cold. Here, the chill went right to your bones, and had little to do with air-conditioning.

Each cell here had only one bed, and we passed two vacant ones before reaching an occupant, a man in his late twenties, head bent, face hidden as he prayed. The words tumbled forth, barely coherent, voice raw as if he’d been praying for days, and no longer expected a response, but wasn’t ready to give up hope, praying like he had so much to say and so little time to say it in.

“Death row,” I murmured.

Trsiel nodded and stopped before the man’s cell. He went very still, then shook his head sharply and moved on. “We need someone to test this on. Someone who’s guilty.”

“Guilt—you mean he’s innocent?”

My gaze slid back to the praying inmate. I’d never been what you call a religious person. I’ve even been known to be somewhat disparaging of faith, and those who throw themselves into it. Too many people spend their lives focused on insuring a good place in their next one, instead of embracing the one they have. That smacks of laziness. If your life sucks, you fix it, you don’t fall on your knees and pray for someone to make it better the next time.

But here, watching this man pray so hard, with so much passion, desperation, and blind hope, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of indignation.

“Isn’t this what you guys are supposed to do?” I called after Trsiel. “Right wrongs? See justice done?”

He slowed, but didn’t turn.

“This justice belongs to the living,” he said softly. “We can only right it after they’ve exacted it. He’ll see his freedom soon enough, on the other side.”

Trsiel moved between two cells. There was a man in each, one about fifty, but looking twenty years older, shoulders stooped, hair gray, skin hanging off his frame as if he’d lost a lot of weight, fast. The other man was maybe thirty, hunched over a pad of paper, writing as furiously as the first man had been praying.

Trsiel considered them both, then nodded at the writer. “He’ll do. I’ll be acting as a conduit. Through me, you’ll see what I see, by tapping into a higher level of Aspicio sight powers. Give me your hand.”

I reached out and grasped his fingers.

“I’m not sure whether this will work, or how well,” he said. “So be patient…and be ready.” He turned his gaze on the man. “Now…”