“I had a half hour a week in the hospital, right after, right after Belinda. This doctor, he looked a lot worse than most of the patients, his face was all red and chewed up, like he had a sunburn, and he smoked in this windowless room, they all smoked like it was vitamins. And all the doc would say was, are you taking your medication? Are you having nightmares? Are you having thoughts of suicide? I said yes sometimes and I said no sometimes. He didn’t seem to care what I said. But in jail, there’s no therapy in jail, Mom. Not unless you’re in a maximum security nut place, like Mendota.”

“You said there was.”

“No, I never said there was. You just thought there was and I never told you anything different.”

“Is there other stuff like that?”

He said, “Yes.”

“You can go to counseling when you get home.”

“Okay. But not yet. I just have to sit here right now and be grateful I’m free. Like, I can go to sleep right now, and it will be dark and quiet all night.” He didn’t seem to notice the woman shouting at her kids and her greyhounds. There were many worst parts of prison, but one of the worse worsts he had shared with me on visits was the sobbing and screaming and rustling and laughing that went on all night, under lights that were never dimmed.

There was a surreal quality to this middle passage, neither here nor there, neither morning nor night. After we had purchased the clothing, picked up food and checked in to the hotel, the blizzard enclosed us like a glittering tower. Just as a big storm can feel comforting when you are safe in your own nest, this one felt isolating, hazardous, as if we were stranded at sea. Stefan ate and got sick and then the both of us were suddenly, simultaneously, exhausted. He wanted to nap, the cheap square laminate bedframe looking to him like a tropical paradise.

“Are you okay if I leave? Do you want to watch a movie or something together?” I said.

“I’m good. I’ll probably just sleep.”