"It was terrible. Really bad. Women living in close proximity always end up on the same monthly cycle. I guess there must be primitive survival advantages – females fertile at the same time. Talk about PMS. You tack a full moon on top of that and the place turned into a loony bin. Moodiness, quarrels, crying jags, suicide attempts."

"You think being among hardened criminals corrupted you?" "Corrupted me? Like how?"

"Didn't you pick up new and better ways to break the law?" She laughed. "Are you kidding? All of us were in there because we got caught. Why would I take instruction from a bunch of fuckups? Besides which, women don't sit around trying to teach other women how to rob banks or fence stolen property. They talk about what lousy attorneys they had and how their case is going on appeal. They talk about their kids and their boyfriends and what they want to do when they get out, which usually involves food and sex – not necessarily in that order."

"Was there an upside?"

"Oh, sure. I'm clean and sober. The drunks and druggies are the ones who end up back in the can. They go out on parole and the next thing you know, they're on the bus again, coming through Reception. Half the time they can't even remember what they did while they were out."

"How'd you survive?"

"I walked the yard or read books, sometimes as many as five a week. I did tutoring. Some of the girls barely knew how to read. They weren't dumb; they'd just never been taught. I did their hair and looked at pictures of their kids. That was hard, watching them try to maintain contact. The phones were a source of conflict. You wanted to make an afternoon call, you had to get your name on a list first thing in the morning. Then when your turn came, you had twenty minutes max. The big beefy dykes took as long as they liked and if you had objections, tough patooties to you. I was a shrimp compared to most. Five-two, a hundred and four pounds. That's why I learned to be devious. Nothing sweeter than revenge, but you don't want to leave your fingerprints all over the deed. Take my advice: never do anything that points back to you."

"I'll remember that," I said.

Rosie returned with a tray bearing Reba's iced tea, the lemon swaddled in cheesecloth, and an order of Krumpli Paprikas for each of us. She set down rye bread, butter, and sour pickles, and disappeared again.

Reba leaned close to her bowl. "Oh. Caraway seeds. For a minute, I thought I saw something move."