“Patience is a skill that almost no one learns,” she replied softly. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.”
Lisa didn’t quite understand, but something in Maya’s tone made her feel, at the same time, more confident and more uneasy than ever.
In Block C, fear had a name and surname: Harper Williams.
Harper had been there for four years and had built a throne of enforced silence and broken bones. No one sat without her permission, no one spoke too loudly near her table, no one held her gaze for more than a second. Her group of followers always surrounded her, like sharks who knew the scent of fresh blood perfectly.
The guards let her do as she pleased. As long as Harper maintained “order,” they could look the other way, fill out paperwork in peace, and drink their coffee without interruption. The price of that tranquility was the inmates who became public examples every week.
When word got out that “fresh meat” was coming to C-block, Harper rubbed his hands together.
The first time he saw her, Maya was walking close to the wall, her gaze lowered and her steps measured. She was a Black woman, thin but strong, silent as a shadow. Her orange jumpsuit was perfectly wrinkled. Her food tray was always neatly arranged.
In Harper’s eyes, she was perfect.
“A gift from heaven,” he murmured that first day, observing her from his throne in the center of the dining room.
But Maya wasn’t a gift. She was a time bomb, and nobody had noticed.
