Twenty-Five
Simone
“Oh, some peace and quiet,” I muttered.
I had left the warden’s office. Rubin was sleeping.
It was early, pre-dawn, but the sun would be up soon.
I had spent a moment—just one—watching the sky.
It was hazy, and I couldn’t tell if it was clouds or the remnants of the fire.
But I supposed it didn’t matter. I was surprised when I slipped out without Rubin noticing, but I was grateful for it.
Before, I’d spent almost all of my time alone. Even the casual conversations at the bank could be taxing. I hadn’t had more than a few seconds alone in days. Hadn’t really wanted them and Rubin wasn’t especially chatty, but today, I needed space.
A hot commodity here behind these bars.
Just like quiet was. There were only a few precious minutes at dawn when there was something like silence. I treasured them, willing to disregard the pervasive stink, the fear that always lurked just beneath the surface, to enjoy them.
As I nodded at Besnik and made my way to the cafeteria, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of the months that Rubin had spent here because of me.
It was the right thing. He was a bad person, a criminal.
I was too, sort of, but what Rubin did… Yeah, I had done the right thing.
He deserved to be in jail. I knew that, had known that when I testified.
And the fact that doing so helped Aaron only increased my conviction.
I had done the right thing. So what if the days he had spent here were excruciating?
And they had been. As contained as Rubin was, as meticulous, he valued his freedom. I remembered well on one of those long nights, when I had been feeling particularly bold, I had made an observation.
“It’s Wednesday. You’re eating chicken, asparagus, sweet potato. You eat that every Wednesday. Saturday too,” I had said, before cutting off quickly, embarrassed that I had said anything at all, let alone something so weird.
“Yes. I like my routine,” he had said, not looking at me as he meticulously cut the chicken breast into cubes.
I should have left well enough alone, but I couldn’t stop myself from speaking. “But you could have anything you wanted. You could fly in dinner from Paris every day if you wanted to.”
“I could.” He nodded his agreement.
“So why don’t you?” I asked.
“Something most people don’t understand, but something I figured out.”
“What’s that?” I had looked away from my notepad, risking meeting his gaze.
“The chicken doesn’t matter. The veal from Italy doesn’t matter. What matters is that if I want it, I can have it. The thing isn’t the prize. It’s not freedom. The ability to dictate when and if I get it…that’s freedom,” he’d said.
I had nodded, pretending I understood, but I hadn’t.
I had thought about that many times since, more than I cared to remember.
I was even thinking about it now, when freedom was a luxury that none of us—not even Rubin—had.
Sure, I could leave this prison, be ripped apart by the undead, or fall into the hands of someone worse.
So what was choice when there was no chance to use it?
Maybe that was the joke of it. I’d thought I was trading Rubin’s freedom, but in the end had lost my own. The dead had seen to that.
Jesus Christ, Simone, shut up, I muttered to myself as I entered the cafeteria.
The room wasn’t that large, but as empty as it was now, it felt cavernous and a little scary. The chrome steam table sat empty, and the counter was clean, all traces of Roderick’s blood gone. I walked in, but then stopped when I noticed a figure.
“Sorry, you were here?” I asked Kane. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him. He’d mostly kept his head down.
“No. Go ahead,” he said. The man looked remarkably calm, but I wondered if that was a front. I stared at him for a moment longer, but then looked away and went deeper into the cafeteria and into the kitchen.
I had laid out rations for the day. I grabbed mine and couldn’t help but smile.
“Funny that people can just walk in and grab food at will. Couldn’t do that before,” Kane said.
“Yeah. Rubin says he’s not running a kindergarten. People can feed themselves. And he’s not worried about them stealing it.” I didn’t need to explain why.
He hesitated, but I nodded toward the food. “You can have some. There’s enough set aside for everyone.”
He grabbed it, then looked down. “Instant grits, pears, and some…I have no idea how old bologna. Thick slice of it, at least.”
I smiled. “Take your chances on that if you want.”
He looked down at the rations, then smiled. “Well, at least this is my favorite brand of grits.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay I guess.”
He smiled, his eyes brightening and crinkling at the corners. “Oh, you bougie, huh? Never would have suspected.”
I laughed. “Bougie just because I recognize the superiority of stone-milled grits rather than that factory crap?”
“Hey, to each his own, but these taste like home,” he said.
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “Whatever. But the real question is: hot sauce or jelly?”
Kane laughed, and I smiled, turned, and he followed. And as one, we both went silent.
“You want to share the joke?” Rubin said.
He was talking to me, but he was looking at Kane.
I’d seen that flat look before when Rubin was calculating who would die and how much it would hurt. My stomach dropped.
Kane shook his head. “Nothing to share.” And then walked out of the cafeteria.
Rubin approached and grabbed his own tray. “Did I give you permission to leave?” he said.
I counted to ten, then counted to ten again.
“Rubin, we discussed this. There’s no reason to get permission to go—”
He was looking at the spot Kane had vacated but the intensity of his focus was centered on me.
“Did I give you permission?”
“Did I need it?” I snapped.
He stared at me, studying me like he had Kane, and I regretted the question.