Chapter 2. Ethan
I swing my legs off the bed, feet on cold floor, and start making my bed before the overhead lights flicker on.
Hospital corners, blanket pulled tight, the way they expect us to do every day.
It's muscle memory now. Three years of the same routine, and I can do it in the dark.
I like doing it in the dark. It means I'm ahead of everyone else before the day even starts.
When the buzzer goes off and the lights automatically go on, Jack groans from his bunk.
He always groans. He buries his face in his pillow, his blond hair smashed flat on one side, that ugly Batman tattoo under his ear half-hidden by the pillowcase.
I know he'll stay there until the last possible second.
"Get up," I say. Not loud. I don't need to be loud.
"Five more minutes," he mumbles.
"You said that yesterday. And the day before."
"And I'll say it tomorrow. It's tradition."
Miles is already sitting up on the top bunk.
Silent, eyes open, staring at nothing. He doesn't need to be told.
He doesn't need anything from anyone, which is why he's the only person in this room I never have to worry about.
He climbs down, makes his bed, not as tightly as mine, but close enough, and starts changing into the uniform.
That's Miles. Three years of living together, and I could count our full conversations on one hand.
Harry doesn't move. He sleeps on his stomach with one arm hanging off the top bunk, mouth open. I consider yanking the arm. Instead, I kick the bed frame. The whole bunk shakes. The bottom bunk is empty, waiting for the new kid. That thought makes me sigh, but I ignore it.
"What the fuck," he says, not even opening his eyes.
"Roll call in fifteen."
"I know when roll call is."
"Then get up."
He rolls over, giving me his back. I stare at it for two seconds, then move on. Not worth it. Harry does what Harry wants, and the only reason he hasn't been in serious trouble is because he's rich.
Jack finally peels himself off the mattress. He has a crease from the pillowcase running across his cheek. His brown eyes are still full of sleep. He grins at me, though, because Jack always grins, even at 6 AM, even in this place.
"Morning, boss," he says.
"Don't call me that."
"Morning, sir."
"Don't call me that either."
He laughs. I almost do, but I don't.
We line up outside with the other guys. It's cold, the sky barely gray, and I can see my breath.
Griff is already there. He's always already there. His shift starts at 6 and ends God knows when. He says he likes to make sure everybody starts the day just right, every day. Except Sundays. He says he’s got church on Sundays, and then family barbecue with his son.
His wife passed away ten years or so ago, but his son always visits.
I stand straight, hands behind my back, while the rest of us shuffles into formation.
Some kids look half-dead. A few are still pulling on sweatshirts, which Griff clocks but doesn't comment on today.
He'll remember it, though. He remembers everything.
Roll call. Names barked out, responses mumbled back.
Then the moment of silence. I don't pray.
I don't think about gratitude or change or whatever they want us to reflect on.
I think about my schedule for the day: pharmacology review, two admin reports due, weights then MMA.
I organize the hours in my head like blocks.
Breakfast. The cafeteria smells like eggs and burnt toast, same as always.
I get my tray, sit at our table. Jack drops in next to me, already talking about some dream he had, something about being chased by a bear through a shopping mall.
I half-listen, eating my eggs. Miles sits across from us, silent, eating slowly, eyes on his tray.
Harry shows up late, sliding into the seat at the end like he's arriving at a restaurant. No tray. Harry doesn’t sit with us often but today he has this glint in his eyes. I know he wants to annoy me, particularly, by how he smirks when I look at him.
"Not eating?" Jack asks.
"The eggs taste like someone already digested them," Harry says.
He pulls a chocolate bar from his pocket, contraband, technically, since we're not supposed to have outside food, except if you have some sort of official position, like me.
Griff often brings stuff for the staff and lets me have some.
He unwraps the chocolate in front of everyone, takes a slow bite, and looks at me while he does it. Daring me to say something.
I don't. I take a sip of my coffee. My jaw tightens, but I keep eating.
“You know," Harry says, leaning back, "I heard we're getting a new kid today."
I knew it. I know he’s here with us for a reason.
Jack perks up. "Really? Today?"
"That's what Bill said." Harry takes another bite of his bar. "Another charity case for our fearless leader to babysit."
"You don't know that," I say.
"I know your luck," he smiles. "Parker was fun, wasn't he?"
I set my fork down. Look at him. Hold it for three seconds. He holds it back, still smiling, but I see the flicker, the small calculation behind his eyes, measuring whether he's pushed it too far.
He looks away first. Takes another bite of his bar.
Jack fills the silence. He starts talking about MMA practice, about some combination Griff showed him yesterday.
I let his voice wash over me and finish my breakfast. Miles gets up without a word and carries his tray to the return.
I watch him go. Steady, quiet, invisible.
Sometimes I think Miles has the right idea about everything.
Class. Nursing track, room 4B, second floor of the academic block.
I sit in the front row, same seat every day, notebook open, pen ready.
The teacher, Mrs. Langford, is strict, and brilliant.
No talking, no bullshit. She's tall, thin, glasses on a chain, and she doesn't smile unless you've earned it, which nobody ever has as far as I can tell.
Today it's anatomy review. She puts a diagram on the board, and I'm already labeling it in my notebook before she starts explaining. I like this. Muscles, bones, systems, everything connects, everything has a name and a function. I'm lucky to be in school at all. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t even deserve it. If I weren’t here, I wouldn’t even be able to attend community college, probably.
The programs are paid by funding from people such as Harry’s parents: funded by donations.
Families like Harry's, rich enough to pay their way out of real prison, who want their kids to leave here with a degree. Weirdly enough, the alumni association also helps. Some kids who make it after leaving and are super grateful for Aspire. I’m glad I benefit from it. And, if I make it, I’ll also donate.
Behind me, two kids are whispering. I hear the rustle of paper, a stifled laugh. I don't turn around. Mrs. Langford does.
"Anderson. Wan. Would you like to share with the class?"
Silence. Anderson is a skinny kid with a big nose, always fidgeting, been here six months and still hasn't figured out the basics. He shakes his head.
"Then perhaps you'd like to stand in the corner until the end of the session."
No argument. No protest. It’d be worse if he said anything.
He’d probably be assigned hard labor instead.
Anderson gets up, walks to the corner, faces the wall.
Wan keeps his head down and doesn't look up for the rest of the hour.
That's how it works here. You step out of line, you get corrected.
Simple. Efficient. I don't understand why some kids can't grasp that.
You keep your head down, you do the work, you earn your way forward.
Every disruption is a choice: a choice to stay stuck.
I copy the diagram, label every muscle, and don't look at Anderson once.
After class, I head to my office. It's small, a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, a shelf with my textbooks and a few books Griff lent me, a window.
The overhead light hums and flickers when it rains.
But it's mine. For however long they allow me to be a leader, that’s it.
The only private space in this entire facility, and I earned it.
Three years of perfect conduct, three years of never missing a deadline, three years of keeping my mouth shut and doing the job, volunteering for extra work, being better than good, exceeding expectations.
I start work.
I fucking need my coffee, even though I've already had three cups.
Not the most responsible thing. But unlimited coffee is a leader's privilege, and Jack, at least, would kill for it. The rest of the kids get one cup a day, at breakfast, if they're lucky.
I'm halfway through memorizing my notes when I hear footsteps.
My body locks up before my brain catches on: shoulders tight, jaw clenched, ears tracking the sound.
Stupid. It's just a hallway. But you learn to listen to footsteps when you've had enough time to be scared growing up.
I push it down, steady myself, and after the knock, someone enters without waiting.
Paolo. Twenty-five, dark skin, big eyes, permanently bored.
He tosses a folder on my desk, gives half a smile, and leaves.
I stare at the folder. So. He's coming. Maybe already here.
I slip a strip of paper in my book as a marker and close it slowly on purpose, drag it out. Then I flip the folder open.
Student Assigned: Liam Marsal.
School performance: nil. Significant disciplinary interventions. Last attended in-person sophomore year. History of truancy and theft. Underage DUI. Prior admissions to two inpatient youth psych units. Additional: possible gang affiliation. Moderate to severe recidivism risk.
I roll my eyes. Fucking great.
His mugshot, though. I flip past it. Then flip back.