We’re issued plastic laminate badges that say GUEST in big black letters. Then the officer triggers the bolt on the electronic gate, and it opens. We make our way through the opening, and the gate is quickly slammed shut behind us.
“No going back now,” Sam says. “Unless I scream and cry like a little girl.”
My blood runs cold. I’m sure Sam is experiencing the same unsettling sensation. Better not to dwell on fear. Better to see the doctor and get the hell out of this place as fast as possible.
A tall, well-built man with black, slicked-back hair greets us. He’s dressed in a uniform of white trousers and a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“I’m Jim,” he says.
“Are you a Corrections Officer?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Technically, I’m an SHTA staff m
