By the end of her first week, Taylor understood that prison had its own weather. Not outside weather, though she still found herself checking the sliver of sky visible through the high cafeteria windows as if it mattered. But an internal climate made up of noise, tension, routine, and the constantly shifting moods of the women around her.
Some days the place felt thick with static, like a storm waiting to break. Other days it moved with a strange, almost sleepy rhythm. It was as if everyone had silently agreed to conserve their energy until survival required otherwise.
Taylor learned quickly that time didn’t move in days there. It moved in counts, meal trays, shower rotations, and the heavy electric buzz of doors unlocking and locking again.
Wake-up came at five-thirty, always too early
