I fumble trying to open the door to the visitors’ intake building because my hands are shaking so bad. Finally, a uniformed woman takes pity on me and swings it open from the inside.

I am going to throw up.

Somehow, I make it to the front desk and slip my ID through a tiny hole in the bulletproof glass.

Bulletproof glass.

The gruff man behind the counter shoves a clipboard in my direction and motions for me to sign it. I scribble something that looks vaguely like my signature, and then he barks at me to go sit down and wait. Go sit down and wait. Like this is just a normal day, a normal place.

Like I’m a normal person.

I drag myself over to the bench, limbs heavy, like they’re made of concrete. Collapse on the bench next to a sobbing woman. My eyes are dry now.

As I wait, a thousand thoughts pummel my mind.

What did Jordan say before he died? Why couldn’t David just tell me in one of his fucking letters? Why did he have to force me to come here?

I think back to that night—the night of the party—but it’s this blank space in my brain that I can’t penetrate. I remember getting to the party, drinking with Chim, glaring at Miles from across the room, and then…nothing. Whatever memory used to be there was obliterated by a black hole of alcohol-induced amnesia.

The room starts to tilt. I drop my head in my hands. I can’t do this. I need to get up and go. What was I thinking coming here? Lucy was right.

And then the decision is made for me. They’re calling us, all the people in the waiting room, telling us to put our phones in the lockers that line the far wall, to form a line by the opposite one; it’s time.

—

help.

I sit on a cold metal stool in front of a thick Plexiglas window and a black phone.

I shiver.

—

A loud alarm sounds, and on the other side of the window, men start to shuffle in.

Even if they weren’t handcuffed, there’d be no mistaking them for anything but prisoners. Their gait, the dead look in their eyes, the unhealthy tinge of their skin—all those things give it away.

—

And then I see him.

—

And then he sees me.

—

And then he smiles.

—

Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, but I cannot—I WILL NOT—let them fall. He doesn’t deserve to see me cry.

—

He picks up the phone on his side of the window. He stares at me. I’m frozen. I can’t look away.

—

I want to die.

—

Why won’t anyone help me? Why am I alone?