Becky stripped as if the act were devoid of sexuality. Tossed shoes. A quick roll onto her back to pull off the jeans. She stood to remove her shirt, and I looked away because her sexuality was obvious, whether she meant it to be or not. In the water, she said, “This is nice,” then went under and rose, dripping. The pool made her eyes look something other than blue, and the water made the bra translucent. “Do you want to talk about it, now?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure if she was teasing or not, but words had never been hard for me. I spoke of my father, who thought Jason might be guilty, and of my mother, manic in the kitchen. That led to Chance and prison and the question of college versus war. When I reached the place that hurt the most, I looked away and shared my thoughts on brothers and death and the guilt I harbored for my easy life. When the words ran out, I found Becky close in the water, not touching me, but nearly so.

“What do you think?” I asked.

She stared for a handful of seconds, still silvery-eyed and lovely. “I think you have troubles, and that none of them are bigger than you.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“With your life? I can’t answer that question.”

“What about now? Today?”

“Be there for your brother. Let him know he’s not alone.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough,” she said; but the words, in my ears, were strange.

Be a man, I heard.

For once in your sheltered life.

Ripley returned at ten minutes before five, and Jason considered how strange it was to walk the prison halls in loafers and jeans. He’d served twenty-seven months behind these walls, a full twelve of them before he’d met X.

But those last months …

He’d fought and bled, and been brought back to fight again. Fifteen months. A blur of pain, blood, and bandages. No one had fought X so many times or come so close to beating him. For a time, the guards had wagered in secret on the conflicts, but X didn’t fight for sport—not that kind—and two days after he’d learned of the wagers, one guard lost an ear in an unprovoked bar fight, and another, his home to fire.

After that, there were no wagers.

“This way.”

Ripley led Jason down a series of halls, then outside and through the main yard. Jason watched the prisoners, and the prisoners watched him back. Blacks. Hispanics. The white prisoners paid the most attention. Nazis. Bikers. Loners with the right ink. They had a corner of the yard, and it seemed every eye was on Jason as he passed.

“Because of the Pagans,” Ripley said. “Word is out about what you did to Darius Simms.”

“Is that why I’m in solitary?”