When we hang up, Rhea approaches to take me back to my secluded cell. She puts out her hand to steady me as I rise from the stool with my shackled ankles. I start to turn away, but just before I do, something catches my eye. It’s a man on the other side of the glass, speaking to another inmate. He’s wearing a dark suit—a black jacket paired with a black dress shirt. His dark hair is neatly combed, and his face is clean shaven. As Rhea leads me out of the room, I can just barely make out the bump on the bridge of his nose, as if it had once been broken. That man. He looks so much like . . .
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