EPILOGUE
Buzzzz . . .
The digital clock above the bars on my cell reads three-o-seven. It’s been four years, three months, two weeks and five days since my conviction. Murder in the first degree. Because I was a juvenile at the time of the killing and received ongoing mental evaluations, the sentence included those nine magical words ‘with the possibility of parole based on good behavior.’
Today’s the day. I’ve packed what few belongings I have in a small cardboard box provided by the guards. The buzzer rings every time someone on our block has a door open. I stand before the bars, ready, excited. I tap my foot impatiently.
“Well, Ahnia,” Says the guard outside my door, with a chubby yet strong hand planted firmly on her wide hip. “Congratulations. Follow me, please. Your brother, Dr.
