She wasn’t unattractive, but that square jaw and sharp nose and oil-drop eyes of hers didn’t have guys banging down our door for her company. Jackie didn’t seem to mind, and I found out why one night in September after she’d dragged me to a party. It was less of a party than a Planned Parenthood commercial with snacks and booze, both of which Jackie sucked down as if Armageddon were set for tomorrow morning. We didn’t have a lot of spare change for liquor and junk food, although Jackie always managed to find a few bucks to keep her in cigarettes.

Christ, she was drunk. I ended up having to half carry her back through cobblestone streets to the apartment, no small trick when the person you’re carrying is trying to chain smoke.

“Love you, Jeanie,” she said when I finally got her through the door.

“Love you too, Jacko,” I said automatically. “Want a cup of tea or something?” We didn’t have any tea, so I popped open a can of Coke and tried to feed her a few aspirin.

“I want a kiss,” she said after she’d fallen onto her bed, taking me with her. She smelled of patchouli and red wine. “Come here, Jeanie. Kiss me.”

What Jackie wanted wasn’t a kiss; it was full-on spit swapping.

The next day over coffee, she laughed it off. “Sorry if I got a little crazy last night, hon.”

I never told Patrick about that.

“Whatcha thinking about, babe?” Patrick says, startling me and sending a peeled Roma tomato squirting against the backsplash.

What am I thinking about? Maybe where Jackie Juarez ended up, whether she decided to convert, or whether she ended up in one of the camps along with the rest of the LGBTQIA crowd. My money’s on the camp.

Reverend Carl dreamt up the idea, which was a hit with the Pure Majority until they balked at the idea of putting gay men and lesbians in cells with each other. It would be counterproductive, they argued; think what they’d get up to. So Reverend Carl modified his plan and decided to pair one woman and one man in each cell. “They’ll get the idea soon enough,” he said.

Of course, the camps are only a temporary thing, “until we get on track,” in Reverend Carl’s words.

The camps aren’t camps at all; they’re prisons. Or they were prisons before the new executive orders on crime were signed. There isn’t much need for prisons anymore, which isn’t to say there’s no crime. There is, but the criminals don’t need to be put anywhere, not for long.

I answer Patrick after cleaning up the red mess of tomato on the tile. “Nothing.” Pulse. Ding. You’re out, kiddo. The clock’s hands have decided to move at a snail’s pace since our telephone rang.