But raising a kid was a nonstop, 24/7 job. Then Pops’s health began to fail, and Kristy got a promotion and a raise and then another raise. Nine years later, she was still here, the graduate program applications growing dusty in her desk drawer.

Now this was her life, week in and week out—meeting with violent inmates, trying to make friends with jaded, disheartened reporters desperate to write something that mattered. These days, Kristy found herself skirting the truth when people asked what she did for a living. I’m in public relations, she would say, hoping they wouldn’t probe, hoping she could make it sound more glamorous than it was.

She had to shake off this doomsday feeling. She had a long day of interviews with death row inmates ahead of her, and they would require every ounce of her emotional energy.

Each week, the prison held media visitation for death row inmates. Mondays were reserved for women incarcerated at the Mountain View Unit. Wednesdays were when the male inmates at the Polunsky Unit were interviewed. For two hours, reporters were able to visit with prisoners who had received prior approval from prison officials.

Kristy parked her truck and entered the Polunsky main gate. Guards waved and called out hello, busy opening packages and sorting mail, the ordinary nature of their tasks contrasting starkly with the people who would be receiving these deliveries.

Kristy went through the metal detectors and grabbed her bag on the other side. She was greeted by Bruce, one of her favorite guards, a thirty-something redneck with liberal leanings who liked discussing Nate Silver, The Bachelorette, and his favorite, Real Housewives. Despite the friendly nature of the staff, everyone here understood the dangers they faced when they walked through these doors. You had to work hard to keep the darkness and anxiety from seeping in, an ongoing battle Kristy wasn’t sure she’d ever win.

Bruce led her toward the warden’s office. Kristy rarely went to death row itself, but the reporters had been complaining about the quality of her stock photos and she was tired of hearing them bitch. Today, before her interviews began, she had arranged with the warden to take new photos of death row cells. Warden Gina Solomon greeted her warmly.

“Warden Solomon. How are you?” Kristy said.

The warden, late forties with a severe bowl cut and bright green eyes, shook Kristy’s hand. “How’s the family doing?” she asked.

“Can’t complain,” Kristy said. “My son just made the debate team. First freshman to do that in ten years,” Kristy boasted, her motherly pride on full display.

Warden Solomon nodded. “That’s nice.”

But Kristy heard the false cheer in her voice. The warden’s son was a star quarterback at Montgomery High School. Kristy hated that she let it bother her. Who cared if anyone else was impressed by Ryan?