I pulled my art supplies out of my hiding spot in the mattress, riffling through my sketches for the one I’d done of Shay being wheeled off the tier after his seizure. I’d drawn him on the gurney, arms spread and tied down, legs banded together, eyes raised to the ceiling. I turned the paper ninety degrees. This way, it didn’t look like Shay was lying down. It looked like he was being crucified. People were always ‘finding’ Jesus in jail. What if he was already here?
