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even perched on the narrow counters, carrying on conversations in shouts.
    â€œYou just hand the deputy your slip.” Deondra explained, over the din. “Then you go find a window and wait. They’ll bring him in.”
    It was nearly Michelle’s turn. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for all your help.”
    Deondra made a little shrug, smiled her grimace of a smile. “It’s best we help each other. Believe me, you won’t get much help from anyone else.”
    Michelle found an empty window. At the window to her left was what looked like a family: a young Latina and two small children, the mother holding the smaller of the two up to the glass, so the kid’s father could see. At least, she assumed the young man on the other side was the father. To her right, a rare male visitor, white, middle-aged. She watched as the visitors changed positions, putting their mouths and then their ears up against the circular metal speaker. Even so, how could anyone hear the other? Every word seemed to be bellowed.
    She studied the speaker grate, the Plexiglas around it. Dried spit. A smear of lipstick.
    She opened Deondra’s wet wipe and cleaned the area as best she could. Then sat on the pillar and waited.
    The visitation room on the inmate side had two banks of windows, the one she faced, and one on the wall opposite. She could see the visitors on the other side of those windows, and she had a sudden flash, a vision, of an endless series of windows, of prisoners and visitors, lined up, yelling through the glass.
    She fought off a wave of dizziness, of nausea. Suck it up, she told herself. After almost two hours in various lines, the visit would be over soon enough—you were only allowed twenty minutes.
    Finally, a deputy brought him in.
    Like the other prisoners, he wore orange scrubs with Harris County stenciled in black, and rubber shower shoes.
    Unlike most of the other prisoners, he was handcuffed, hands behind his back. Why was that?
    He didn’t see her, at first; she watched his head swivel back and forth, trying to spot her. She stood up and waved.
    His eyes fixed on her. His face changed. She wasn’t sure what to make of the expression. Sad? Worried? Angry? Then he put on the familiar half-smile. The one he used to cover everything up.
    The deputy walked him over to the stool. He moved stiffly, like he was guarding an injury. He hadn’t shaved today. His eyes were bloodshot, the lids dark with fatigue.
    For a moment, Michelle didn’t know what to say. “Are you okay?” she managed.
    He frowned a little. He hadn’t heard her. She pressed her lips against the metal speaker grate and yelled, like everyone else. “Are you okay?”
    â€œYeah,” he said. But his eyes and expression said something else. A fractional headshake. A warning. Don’t ask.
    He leaned in toward the grate, wincing as he did, arms pressed tight against his sides, his torso held too straight. Had he hurt his ribs? She remembered moving like that, when she had that injury. She put her ear up to the grate. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    Michelle closed her eyes for a moment. As tempting as it was to say, “I told you so,” it didn’t seem like the time.
    And besides, that might sound incriminating.
    â€œWe’ll deal with it,” she said.
    â€œYou didn’t need to come. We’ll have another bail hearing in the next two weeks, and Derek’s sure I’ll be getting out this time.”
    Now it was Michelle’s turn to shake her head. She gestured for him to listen and spoke as clearly as she could into the speaker without shouting.
    â€œGary’s in Arcata. He showed up Tuesday night.”
    She pulled away from the window so she could see his face. For a moment he looked stunned. Then he swallowed, and his face turned still with rage.
    â€œMotherfucker,” he mouthed.
    â€œYeah.”
    She gestured for him to listen. Waited