Time moved steadily the way it always did in prison once you stopped fighting it.
The letters became part of that movement.
Taylor started setting them aside instead of throwing them away after reading. At first, it was just one or two, folded neatly and tucked beneath her mattress. Then a few more. She told herself it was practical, something to reread when there was nothing else to do.
That wasn’t entirely untrue, but it wasn’t the whole reason, either. There was something grounding about them. It was proof that the world outside still existed in a way that wasn’t entirely abstract. Proof that someone, somewhere was thinking about her without obligation or expectation.
One afternoon, while she was sorting uniforms in laundry, Denise nudged her with an elbow. “Your boy’s getting bold.
