More soon.

    You have my word.

Sincerely, your friend,

     Justyce

August 27

    Dear Justyce,

    I feel kinda wack writing to you already—it’s only been two days since you left—but I’m struggling today. Liberty came to tell me she’s also headed back to school, and even though hers is local, the end of her internship means the end of her being on my case. Shit sucks.

    On top of that, I found out this morning that they’re cutting my lessons with Doc to once every other week. Something about budget changes and labor laws.

    Also sucks.

    I dunno, man. Trying not to be all dramatic, but knowing I’m not gonna see three of you who were keeping me afloat makes me feel like I’m going under. Still no word on that motion to suppress the confession, and still no court date.

    I’m tryna keep my head up like you told me to the last time you visited with Attorney Friedman. (I’m clearly a changed man cuz that poke you gave me in my damn forehead woulda gotten you punched in the past.) But it’s hard.

    With each day that passes, it’s getting harder.

    I did talk to my moms the other day, though. She told me my sister’s hair is starting to grow back. So that’s a relief. I knew her little feisty ass wouldn’t let that shit beat her.

         Sure wish she could come dump some of that optimism on me.

    Hope you made it back to school safe.

    Write back soon?

          Sincerely,

     Quan

   For the past five nights, Quan’s been having wild-ass nightmares. From being hauled from his cell, dragged down a dark hallway, and tossed into a pit full of the bones of dead black boys, to watching Tomás Castillo crawl out his grave and chase Quan to Martel’s house, where all of his boys are waiting to shoot him dead.

   Tonight’s involved a white-eyed Justyce in a three-piece suit opening Quan’s chest and frowning at whatever he saw inside before summoning Doc to come take Quan out with a shotgun. And for the fifth night in a row, his eyes have popped wide in his cell, but he’s been unable to take a breath.

   Or move.

   All started on his second anniversary in this place. Seventy-nine days after entering a not-guilty plea.

   Which means he’s been in jail for seven hundred and thirty-five days.

       He can feel sweat at his hairline and along his neck. And he can’t breathe.

   But something’s different this time.

        I don’t know what’s going on with him. Eyes are open, but he ain’t respondin’. Look like he seen a ghost…Do I need to get the medic?

   “Excuse me.”

        Ma’am, you’re not permitted inside the cell—

   “Quan?”

   Quan knows that voice.

   He just wishes he could respond to it.

        Ma’am, your presence inside the cell is a violation of protocol—

   “Sir, this young man is in distress, which I think is a fairly top-notch reason to suspend your protocol for a few minutes,” the female voice says. “Quan? It’s Tay. I’m here, all right?” She puts a hand on his forearm. “The paralysis will subside shortly, and I’ll be here.”

   But what is she doing here?

   “Is everything okay, Octavia?” Another familiar female voice.

   “Yeah, he’s all right,” Tay replies. “Just needs a minute for his system to relax. Guessing he had a nightmare.”

        And now they’re both breaking protocol, the male voice laments.

   “We’ll be outta your hair shortly, sir,” says the second woman.

       “Figuratively speaking…,” Tay mumbles. (So it’s Bowling Ball giving them a hard time. Of course.) “We appreciate your patience,” she says loud and clear.

        “Appreciate my patience.” Tuh…

   “Can he see or hear us?” the second woman’s voice continues.

   “Hear, most likely. See, not quite sure. Sleep paralysis can be tricky. His eyes haven’t moved, so I’m guessing he’s not truly seeing much of anything,” from Tay.

   “That’s gotta be terrifying.”

   “Certainly wouldn’t call it fun,” Tay replies. “Okay, he’s coming down. Saw his thumb move—”

   All at once, the vise releases from around Quan’s chest, and two faces blur into view, one brown with a (fresh) blond fade, and one white with a dark-brown shoulder-length bob thing. He takes the breath that saves his life (or so it feels) and shuts his eyes.

   Opens them again to make sure he’s not still dreaming.

   The women are still there.

   “Well, this is embarrassing,” he says.

   Tay and Attorney Friedman both laugh.

   “What day is it?” Quan says, confused. He meets with Tay on Thursdays and Attorney Friedman every other Monday. He’s pretty sure today is neither.

   “Wednesday,” Tay says. “Sit up. We have something to tell you—”

       The young man is awake now. I need you to vacate the cell. Protocol.

   “Lord have mercy, Jesus,” Tay says under her breath. It makes Quan smile. Even though, yes: her and Attorney Friedman being in his cell is…weird. And a little uncomfortable. It’s not exactly tidy in here. Though better for there to be books scattered all over the place than something else, he guesses.

   Also: he’s in his boxers.

   As soon as they’ve exited and are out of view, Quan snatches his jumpsuit from where it’s plopped in a heap of wrinkly tangerine fabric on the concrete floor and pulls it over his drawers and tank top. Socks on with utmost celerity, as he learned from Doc, then his feet are in his sandals.

   Part of him wants to slow down. If Tay and Attorney Friedman are here, something happened.

              And it’s potentially something bad.

     Because why else would

     his lawyer

     AND

     his counselor