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ain’t gonna let get the better of you. It don’t take much to figure out what yo villain should be, FATTY,” the last word said for emphasis. I took what he said to heart and, over the next few weeks, began to curb the sweets, slowly weaning myself from the trans-fats and processed sugars. Carlton would still call me fatty, and he’d have other inmates do the same thing. It pissed me off to no end, but I eventually saw the magic of his meanness. I started walking interminable laps around the prison yard. We estimated that one lap was almost a quarter mile, and I would easily pound out three to four miles a day, sometimes five, day after day after day.
    Eventually, cries of “Fatty! ” turned into “ Looking good, Hamp! ” The pounds began to fall off. Two months into my weight loss project, I was down thirty-five pounds and had cut out all the junk. Coke became water and honey buns turned into fresh fruit from the overpriced prison commissary. I added weightlifting sessions to my program, and the pounds continued to melt off. I stepped on the scales six months later and weighed in at one ninety six.
    Other prisoners congratulated me, and some of the heftier ones were inspired and began their own weight-loss journey. Things were looking up for me, and instead of taking my foot off the gas, I stepped on the pedal and increased the intensity and the amount of time I was working out. If I was sitting still, I would begin to fidget, so I had to teach myself balance. Where was I going anyway? The weights in the yard and the path I had worn next to the ten-foot, concertina-wire rimmed walls weren’t going anywhere.
    In early April 2009, Carlton developed a nasty cough. It persisted, and soon he was coughing up blood. The prison doctor x-rayed his chest and found a mass. A subsequent CT scan at the Central Prison Hospital in Raleigh confirmed his suspicions. Lung cancer. Small cell carcinoma, to be more precise. Carlton was soon moved out of general population and into the prison infirmary because of the need for pain medication. They don’t give you a bottle of 10 mg methadone pills and send you on your merry way back to general pop. I would visit him as much as I could, and wheel him out to the infirmary patio to continue the habit that would eventually kill him. I remember asking him what his villain was. What fire burned in his belly that kept him going?
    He said, “Chase, I knew from the get-go that I was rurnt and would probably die in one of these places. Anger never would’ve done me no good. A loving set of parents wearing my butt out, maybe. No, my young friend, I am a special breed a prisoner. I don’t got no villain. I do have a friend named acceptance, though. You gon get out of here one day and get yo second chance, ’n I suspect you won’t fuck it up like I done mine.”
    Carlton’s condition continued to worsen, and one day he was gone, moved to the hospice wing of the Central Prison Hospital. I never saw him again, but I never forgot him either.
    ***
    As I sat in the prison library, on the day of my supposed release, I said a simple prayer for Carlton Givens, a most unlikely angel sent to me when I needed one the most.

Chapter 6
     
    The woman stepped out of her top-floor corner office and outside, onto the spacious, park-like terrace with its green space and padded park benches. Each corner of the square, five-story building had this benefit. The Sky Park , as it was affectionately known, though seventy feet off the ground, didn’t quite qualify as lofty. Top executives and corporate lawyer types needed space to blow off steam or step away from the computer screen and think from time to time. She was one of eight lucky employees to have this perk, as two corner offices could access each terrace.
    She pulled a half-empty pack of Marlboros from the front pocket of her navy slacks and lit her fourth and final cigarette of the day. She took a deep drag and exhaled forcefully. Try as she might, she