King Perry by Edmond Manning Page A

the security guard’s schedule. I check his watch a few times to make him feel safer. We have lots of time.
    While we could speak at normal volume, we keep conversation to a minimum. As much as I would like to point out the lack of rats, I do not, because sometimes pointing out the absence of a thing draws more attention. I lead us to the furthest east galley, the one facing San Francisco, where strong moonlight filters through chain-link windows and hits the floors with crisp, institutional lines.
    Oh. Moon’s out.
    “Look. Moon’s out.”
    He nods.
    As we trudge slowly forward, it’s easy to pretend that we’re walking down Death Row.
    Perry shudders.
    Even without living occupants, each cell radiates invisible, angry life. I almost dread looking inside them, afraid of encountering the furious gaze of someone not yet paroled. The last few cells along this galley are unusual because their doors are solid iron, where the worst of the worst were sent, the ones who could not stop ripping apart humanity, though they were mostly tearing through themselves.
    These rooms are sensory deprivation tanks, steel walls offering no glimmer of light. On the audio tour, one former convict reported that while in the Hole, he kept himself sane by ripping a button from his uniform and throwing it into the invisible night, spending hour after hour on his hands and knees finding it. He played this game over and over, and somehow he lived through his darkness. The solid doors remain bolted open so vacationing older brothers can’t traumatize their younger siblings. I lead him to the doorway of one in particular and instantly feel his resistance.
    He says, “Alcatraz is closed.”
    I arch my eyebrows at him, not getting his meaning.
    Perry puts the palm of his hand to his eye socket, and a silent guffaw animates him. “That was stupid.”
    I scratch my goatee. “True, we’re stretching visiting hours. Trust me, Perry, this will be an experience you never forget. And by that, I mean you will live far beyond this weekend to remember it, barring unforeseen San Francisco bus accidents and future earthquakes. King’s honor.”
    Though his face expresses doubt, he squeezes my hand, giving me a slight nod, and a shock of his brown hair nods over his forehead too, in that sexy, clean-cut way. I’m here with Clark Kent, which is super hot. Sure, Superman boasts muscles and he flies, but I always wanted to fuck that nerdy reporter from The Daily Planet .
    “I need the two tools.”
    He hands them over, and I work quickly to loosen the bolt. By day it appears firmly attached to the floor, like its neighbors, and it is. The nearby floor joints are another matter. I remember the night I rigged this. God, what a fucking night. Work, work, work, night guard! Scurry and hide. Work, work, work, night guard! Scurry and hide. But I had to know what it was like to play the button game.
    When I finish this task, I take his hand in mine, and we cross over into the darkest dark, joined only by our slight physical contact. From the inside, I swing the door closed, extinguishing the moon’s ghostly presence.
    I will not separate from him, not for a single second. We’re in a land between worlds now, this one and the next. If our connection snaps, if the tether is broken, the damage could be irreparable.
    I turn my front to his and wrap my arms around him, his ragged breaths in my ear, his heart pounding against my chest. I turn us a half turn. With my knee, I nudge him back a half step, communicating my demands through caterpillar touch. With me guiding our movements, we take tiny, black footsteps over the abyss.
    We inch slowly toward what I believe is the middle of the cell. I drop my arms to his waist and ease him against my chest. The complete absence of sound mirrors the lack of visual data. We huddle together, suspended by a midnight rope over an inky sea. The floor is gone; walls cease to exist.
    We are nothing.
    I lean in to kiss him, my breath