It looked as though the building had been intended for some other use, and the prison had just appropriated it. Like they were in the church hall eating biscuits after a sermon. Wooden floors, cobwebs. There was a foldout table and seated behind that was a young woman Penelope didn’t recognise. She smiled at them as they approached.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m here to see my son, Caleb Moore.’

‘You’re Mr Moore’s wife?’

‘He taught you, did he?’

‘No. I’m a girl, not allowed to do woodwork.’

Margie, a big presence behind her, spoke up with, ‘Surprised you lot are open Good Friday.’

‘They’re doing the Prisoners on the Run tomorrow, so there’s a bit to organise. Which is what I’m doing,’ she said. ‘Did Mr Moore tell you about what happened to Caleb?’

Penelope swallowed. ‘Yes, he spoke about it.’

‘Well, he’s still in recovery. We’ve left him in there rather than put him back in population before the run tomorrow. He’ll go back after that.’

Penelope nodded. ‘So we can just go in?’

‘I’ll go let the governor know, then I’ll take you down.’

She stood up and walked through a swinging door at the rear of the room. Penelope and Margie sat down on plastic chairs lining the wall, the faint smell of a hospital finding them.

Penelope tapped her leg. ‘Bit strange,’ she said.

‘I bet,’ Margie said, speaking in a whisper.

‘I don’t know what I’ll do when I see him.’

‘Just tell him you love him.’

Penelope was about to say something rude to this—something akin to tell me what else is new—but stopped herself, instead reminding herself of her friend’s own pain, and that she was here, she was here. She was trying to help.

The young lady soon returned and held the door open, beckoning the two of them in. Penelope stood. Margie offered her hand. Penelope didn’t take it.

They walked down the hall. With every step she grew strangely faint. Her legs were wobbly. She wasn’t even thinking about what would happen. The woman stopped before a door and opened it. She did not go inside. Penelope hesitated, then found herself walking in.

There was her boy. A sheet over him, on the bed. He was fully clothed, apparently, his arms over the sheet in his prison clothes, some steel-capped workmen’s boots at the foot of his bed. He was skinnier. One forearm in a cast. It seemed he hadn’t been informed he’d be receiving a visitor, because a television in the corner of the room was on and when she entered he did not look up for a moment. And when he did it was with a look of annoyance, one she remembered him wearing when he was a three-year-old and had been told he couldn’t play with the potato peeler. And then Vernon had smacked him, and the frown had turned into a scowl. He hadn’t cried, though, normally when Vernon’s hand had struck his bottom. Vernon’s palms weren’t intending real hurt. Just reminders. So he’d said.