I learned later, when I had access to the internet and the strength to read about it without feeling sick, that in fact there were people rooting for Rhonda that day. There were death-penalty abolitionists, who thought no one should be executed, no matter what they’d done. And a postnatal depression charity actually had taken up her cause, but they were small and broke and no one really listened. This was before postnatal psychosis was understood as a condition. In my cell at the time I knew nothing of the news reports and raging debates on morning talk shows, but I could hear the roar of the gathering crowds, the whir of news helicopters overhead. I could see why the guard was excited – the mood was different. In a place where nothing ever changed, the air was electric, new voices echoing, unfamiliar footsteps up and down the hallways. The clanging of gates.

But I didn’t feel excited, I felt terrified. Living on Death Row had still been an abstract experience for me, because it was rare for anyone to actually be executed. It was just like another prison, only quieter, smaller. Today I realised that all those words I’d heard spoken in court – you shall be put to death – had real consequences. This was a death house, and we were all just waiting our turn. In an hour, Rhonda, my good and kind friend, would be strapped to a gurney and have her arm filled with poison. It was going to happen. But still I had hope, stupid, blind hope.

‘Will they not call it off?’ I asked the guard. ‘I mean, that happens, right? A last-minute reprieve?’

She shot me a look. ‘Not this time.’

‘But – why?’

‘Why you think? Governor wants to make an example, they ain’t done a woman in years. And she killed her babies, Blondie. Who does that?’

‘A sick person. Who needs help.’ I was stepping out of line here, and she glared at me again.

‘You forget where you are or something? Who you are?’

In her eyes I had also killed a child. I was shivering, freezing cold despite the hot desert pall we lived under. I rubbed my arms, noticing how pale they were, how spindly. I was weak from years inside. I was twenty-two already, and I would die in a prison cell, or else follow Rhonda to the execution chamber. Unless a miracle happened.

I was still hoping for it, a last-minute reprieve, as Rhonda was led past my cell. Four guards were escorting one woman. I think they paraded her like this on purpose, to remind us we were next. That our lives were an illusion we could lose any second. That we too were dead women walking. As she passed, I ran to my bars, though I’d been warned not to.

‘Rhonda!’