Page 12 of On Your Life

He should be working at a desk in a corporate office or something, typing emails and complaining about the weather outside. Not working in a prison. Recognition floods his face before he even speaks to me.

“Step away from the desk inmate.” He stands and puffs out his chest like it’s supposed to be intimidating. A field mouse might be scarier. “What do you want?”

His sneer from earlier returns and I’m reminded that I’m not going to get easy treatment from any of the guards.

Fine. If they want to play that game, I can play too. I bring out the tears I have been so eager to let fall.

“I-I need to call my mom,” I say between pretend sobs. “I ha-haven’t been able to talk to anyone since I’ve been here.”

He looks like he couldn’t care less about my current struggles.

“Phones turn on at eleven inmate,” he says flatly. “Until then you can wait like everyone else.”

He sits back down in his chair and continues doing whatever the hell it was that he was doing before I interrupted him.

My jaw clenches. I turn around and stomp so hard up the metal steps that my ankles ache from the impact. Fuck this fucking place and everyone in it.

The clock on the wall says it’s nine. Two more hours and I can at least have a normal conversation with someone who actually gives a shit whether I live or die. Two more hours and maybe I can figure out what’s going on.

Hopefully my lawyer has come up with a solution because I’m already feeling like the walls are closing in around me.

Chapter 7

Fox

My coffee tastes like shit. I take another sip anyway, grimacing as the bitter liquid coats my tongue. I need to lay off the energy drinks but I’m starting to think a sledge hammer to the side of the head might serve me better than caffeine at this point.

Everything tastes terrible these days. Coffee, food, even the goddamn gum I keep chewing tastes like cardboard.

I haven’t worked out since I got the news about Conner, but I dragged myself out of bed early today to hit the gym before work. Maybe I need to sweat some of this shit out. Maybe if I push my body hard enough it’ll finally be too exhausted to remember why I’m angry.

We used to work out everyday, Conner and me. We’d spend an hour beating the shit out of ourselves before heading to work and complaining about the job we grew up wanting. It was almost a ritual. Lift, run, bitch about the prison, then do it all again the next day.

The prison is the largest employer in Sawtooth. My family has been employed there as long as I can remember. My father practically lived there before he died and I spent most of my childhood hearing stories about the place. Stories about terrible inmates, worse officers, and the kind of shit that never makes it into the news.

My gaze lands on the mantle. My father’s ashes sit in a dark blue urn, the color faded slightly from years of dust and sunlight. I haven’t moved them since the funeral. I don't know why. Maybe because moving the urn would make it feel like I was admitting he was really gone.

He died of a heart attack a few years ago. I still remember the phone call, the way the house felt so empty afterward.

It seems like whatever God there is fucking hates me because he took my best friend just as I started feeling normal again.

“Shadow! Get inside!” I call out the back door.

A second later a missle of black fur comes tearing across the yard. I barely get the glass door open before Shadow barrels through it, nails skittering across the hardwood as his long legs struggle to keep up with the rest of him. I jerk backward just in time to avoid getting knocked on my ass.

“Woah!”

I laugh at the clumsy dog. He gives me an innocent look, his ears perked high and his nub of a tail swinging so hard that his whole body shakes.

I shut the door behind him and glance at the glass. One more broken panel and I’m going to have to take out a second mortgage.

Never in a million years did I think I’d own a dog, let alone a Doberman. Then again, I never planned on finding him stranded on the side of the road either.

He was skinny when I found him, his ribs were visible beneath his black coat and a tattered collar was hanging loose around his neck. No tag or owner that I could find. Just a scared dog standing on the shoulder like he was waiting for someone to come back for him that never came.

He grew on me faster than I’d like to admit. Now he’s a part of the routine. He handles my night shifts well enough as long as I wear him out with a run every day. Otherwise, he turns into a four-legged menace with enough energy to destroy half of the house before I make it back.

The large kennel rattles as he charges inside, claws scraping across the plastic floor. He turns in a tight circle and sits, staring at me expectantly.