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dream. Jorge, young and stupid, told her to dream of someone else ’cause she was such a fucking dog. No checkup for him that time.
    His hair was straight, dark brown, combed back. Eyes: light brown. Despite everything he’d been through in the asphalt jungle, there was an innocent look in his eye. Made it easier to sell snow when it came to that.
    They slaved in the workshops during the weeks. Were allowed out twice a day: one hour for lunch and again between five o’clock and dinnertime at seven. After that: lockdown. Just you and your cell. They got more time on the weekends. Played ball. Hit the weights. The gangs shot the shit. Smoked, chatted, sneaked a roach when the COs weren’t watching. Jorge worked out.
    He’d started studying for his GED. It was appreciated by the prison administration. Gave him believable reasons to be by himself. He would sit with the cell door open and read between five o’clock and dinnertime every night. The show worked. The screws nodded approvingly.
Putos.
    The cell was small: sixty-five square feet painted light brown. The five-square-foot window had three steel bars across it to prevent escape. They were painted white, with nine inches between them. But the king, Ioan Ursut, had done it. Dieted for three months and smeared himself with butter. Jorge thought about what would’ve been the hardest to get through, the head or the shoulders.
    Spartan decoration. A cot with a thin foam mattress, a desk with two shelves above it and a wooden chair, a closet and another shelf for storage. Nowhere to hide anything. A wooden strip intended for posters ran around the length of the room. No tape was allowed directly on the wall—there was a risk that drugs or other stuff could be hidden behind whatever was put up. Jorge’d tacked up the photo of his sister and one poster. A black-and-white classic: Che with a tangled beard and beret.
    The screws searched the cell at least twice a week. Looked for drugs, pruno, or larger metal objects. Man, they were pissing in the wind. The place was crawling with weed, hooch, and Subutex pills.
    The environment made him claustrophobic. Other days, he was riding high—thoughts of the escape were like a supertrip. At times, he acted like a fucking tweak fiend. Avoided everything and everyone. Dangerous/unnecessary. Just one tiny suspicion and his plan could be shot to hell—snitching fags sucked CO cock.
    He thought about his background. Slyly racist teachers in Sollentuna. Welfare whities, pussy profs, cocky cops. All the right circumstances for a kid from the projects to make all the predictable mistakes. They didn’t know shit about Life. Justice relegated to the rules of the streets. But Jorge never whined. Especially not now. Soon, he’d be out. He thought about trafficking blow. Collected ideas. Analyzed. Spun schemes. Learned from Rolando and the other guys.
    Had strange dreams. Slept poorly. Tried to read. Jacked off. Listened to Eminem, the Latin Kings, and Santana. Thought about his training. Jacked off again.
    Time cr
aaaaawled.
    Jorge waited. Anticipated. Contemplated. Fluctuated between rushes of joy and regret. Took himself more seriously than ever. Had never thought this much about any one thing in his entire life. It had to work.
    Jorge had no one on the outside ready to take big risks. The consequence: He had to be his own fixer. But he didn’t have to do everything.
    Rolando’d never returned to their conversation about flight in the chow hall. The dude seemed trustworthy. If he was gonna sing, word should’ve spread by now. But Jorge had to test him more. Double-check that it was time to reveal parts of his plan. The fact was, he needed Rolando’s help.
    The first real problem: He needed to speak to certain people and he had to prepare stuff. Needed hours outside the prison. Österåker didn’t grant regular parole anymore. But prisoners could get guarded parole if they had specific reasons. Jorge’d applied two months ago. Had to