Wayward Correctional Facility was two hours away from where I’d grown up on the south shore of Connecticut, and I spent the ride checking out my new phone while the cab driver made invasive small talk. “You were a prisoner, huh?” he asked. “Yeah,” I replied, turning the phone on and marveling at the smooth, bright screen. “How long were you locked up?” “Uh … nine years and some months.” “Wow, man. What’d you do?” His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror to meet mine. “Killed my best friend,” I muttered while pressing my pointer finger to the icon that looked like a phone. It took me to a list
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