Page 26 of Captured By the Convict

“Liam O’Brien,” he repeats hoarsely, blinking twice, glancing at my wife, gazing at my kids, then flicking that gaze back at my face and holding it there. “Liam O’Brien,” he says again like a stuck record, his gaze narrowing for a moment, then softening slightly, warming subtly, finally shining with something that brings a hopeful tightness to my lips. “Beautiful family you’vegot here, Liam O’Brien,” the Warden finally says. He reaches out and grasps my hand, completing the handshake, closing the loop. “You’re a lucky man. Luck of the Irish, right, Liam O’Brien?”

The handshake lingers for what feels like an interminably long time. Then the Warden pulls his hand away, smiles at my wife, orders his cookies, pays his bill, then turns and walks away without another word.

And I know it’s over.

Nobody’s going to open that file again.

The Warden will cover for me—and himself—if anyone else ever thinks they recognize me.

It’s over.

I’m free.

Free to stay right here.

Stay with them.

Stay with this.

This feeling.

This family.

This forever.

∞

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