An Imperfect Process by Mary Jo Putney Page A

the girl was here reluctantly. Did she fear that no one would want her, as if her traumatic background was contagious? Val felt a powerful wave of tenderness.
    Though she knew better than to hug the girl, the strength of her reaction surprised her. She had come to the picnic because she was interested in the program, but now she didn't want a Little Sister in the abstract—she wanted this one. She wanted to learn more about this bright, tragic little girl. She wanted to spend time with her, make her laugh.
    A little nervously, she said, "I've never been a Big Sister and I need training, but if you're willing and Anita and your grandmother agree, I would very much like to have you as a Little Sister. Would you like that, too? We can get matching T-shirts that say 'Every day is a bad hair day.'" She hesitated, hoping this wasn't too soon. "Of course, if you'd rather not, that's okay. The match has to be something we both want."
    Lyssie's rejection wouldn't be okay, but the last thing Val wanted to do was make the girl unhappy. Hardly breathing, she waited as Lyssie pulled out a bookmark and carefully placed it between the pages. "What would we do?"
    "Things we would both enjoy. I'd like to read and discuss books, or maybe go to movies, or work on craft projects, or cook. Do you think you'd like any of those things? We get to choose together."
    For a long moment, Lyssie fidgeted with the bookmark.
    Then she closed the volume and looked up with a shy smile. "I... I'd like that."
    "Wonderful!" Val beamed like an idiot. "Shall we go find Anita?"
    And later she would call Rachel and thank her for a truly great suggestion.
    * * *
    Over the years, Kendra had become accustomed to the SuperMax. She knew the routines and some of the guards. Most of them were good guys doing a job to support their families. But she never stopped loathing the place. Sometimes when she couldn't sleep at night, she would be haunted by thoughts of being incarcerated here. Rough concrete walls, even a concrete bed, in a room the size of a walk-in closet. Narrow slits of windows that only a snake child could escape from. Twenty-three hours a day of solitude. She would go crazy.
    Daniel's calm acceptance was little short of a miracle. Though he was on death row, he never caused any problems, so he was allowed a few privileges. With books, he had given himself an eclectic education. He had stayed fit with exercises that could be done in his cell, and playing basketball with two or three other men during the brief recreation hours. After his initial rage and bitterness had died down, he had returned to the religion of his childhood with a faith that awed her. Though he didn't want to die, he wasn't eating himself alive with anger.
    Only on rare occasions did she glimpse the frustration he felt with his imprisonment. What would it be like to be locked up like a rat in a cage? Be unable to eat what he wanted, go where he wanted? Lord, never to have sex except with his right hand? No matter how hard she tried to imagine imprisonment, she couldn't really understand the dark place at the center of his soul. For that, she was shamefully grateful. She wouldn't have the strength to endure vicious injustice with such grace.
    She settled in the visiting room chair, waiting. Not something she was naturally good at, but she had learned. When Daniel arrived, he was escorted by two guards. Both gave her friendly nods. Everyone politely ignored the shackles that bound the prisoner.
    "Hi, baby." Daniel smiled at her, warmth in his eyes. Though he'd never used emotional blackmail to get her to come, she knew how much these visits meant to him as a break in the slow stretch of featureless days. "How you doin'?"
    "Pretty good, big guy. What did you think of my boss?"
    He chuckled. "She's quite a little firecracker. Wouldn't want to cross her."
    "She's smart, Daniel, probably the smartest lawyer I've ever worked with. Maybe she can create some reasonable doubt."
    His smile vanished.