CHAPTER 16 SHAWN—WHATS UNDERNEATH
Laundry comes back Tuesday, same as always, cart rattling down the tier with everybody's bagged sheets and jumpsuits tossed through the slots without much ceremony.
Jorge's bag lands wrong. Shawn hears it before he sees it, the particular sound of fabric hitting concrete instead of a bunk, and looks over to find Jorge already crouched over it, going still in a way that's never good.
"The fuck is this."
His sweatshirt, the good one, the one he's worn to every visitation Shawn's seen him leave for, comes out of the bag with a rip clean down one sleeve, seam torn like it got caught in something and nobody bothered checking before it went through the wash.
"CO." Jorge's up at the bars before Shawn can say anything. "CO, get over here."
The guard ambles over, unbothered, the kind of unbothered that comes from doing this job long enough to stop caring what's on the other side of the bars. "What?"
"My shirt's ruined. Torn clean through." Jorge holds it up through the bars, sleeve dangling. "This is the second time this month something's come back trashed."
"Not my department."
"Then whose department is it?"
"File a grievance." The guard's already turning to walk off, like the conversation ended the second he decided it did. "Takes a few weeks. Maybe they replace it, maybe they don't."
"A few weeks." Jorge's voice doesn't rise, not yet, but something underneath it goes flat and hard in a way Shawn's learned to recognize. "I got court appearances. That's the only decent thing I own in here and now it's garbage because some machine's been running since Reagan was in office."
"Not my problem, man."
"Then whose is it? Because somebody's job was making sure this didn't happen, and somebody didn't do it."
"You want to file a complaint against the laundry contractor, be my guest. I just push the cart." The guard's voice picks up its own edge now, tired of being yelled at for something above his pay grade. "Watch your tone, Delgado."
"Watch my—" Jorge's hand tightens on the bars, knuckles going white, and for a second Shawn sees exactly what Jorge had described to him earlier instead of just hearing about it.
Something coiled and simple and looking hard for somewhere to land.
"You want to talk tone, or you want to fix the actual—"
"I said watch it." The guard's hand drops to his radio, not keying it yet, just resting there, a warning shaped like a gesture. "Don't need a write-up today any more than you do."
Jorge doesn't say anything else. Doesn't trust himself to. Turns away from the bars sharp enough that the torn sweatshirt swings from his fist like it weighs more than it does, and the guard moves on down the tier without another word, already forgetting the whole exchange happened.
Jorge doesn't forget that fast. Stands in the middle of the cell for a long moment, breathing through something Shawn can see him working to control, jaw locked tight enough to ache.
"Knew I should've hand-washed it in the sink," Jorge mutters, mostly to himself, voice low and rough. "Knew it. Every damn time I let something out of my hands, it comes back wrong."
Shawn doesn't say anything right away. Watches him a second, recognizing the shape of what's happening now instead of just being afraid of it the way he might have weeks ago.
"It's a shirt, Jorge."
"I know it's a shirt." Jorge's voice cracks on it, just slightly, more anger at himself than at Shawn for saying it.
"Know exactly what it is. Doesn't stop my hands wanting to put a fist through the bars right now over a shirt, which should tell you something's wrong with me that's got nothing to do with laundry. "
Shawn crosses the cell, doesn't reach for him yet, just stands close enough that Jorge has to acknowledge he's there. "Tells me you're carrying something a lot heavier than a torn sleeve. Don't mean there's something wrong with you. Means there's something that never got put down."
Jorge looks at him, something raw and unguarded moving across his face for just a second before he gets it back under control. "That supposed to make me feel better?"
"Wasn't trying to make you feel better. Just trying to make you see straight.
" Shawn takes the ruined shirt out of his hand, careful, sets it aside like it's not the thing that matters right now.
"You didn't hit anybody. You didn't hit the bars.
You wanted to, and you didn't. That's the part that counts. "
Jorge doesn't answer. Sits down heavy on the bunk instead, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose like they've used up whatever they were bracing for.
Shawn sits next to him, doesn't say anything else, just stays close enough that Jorge can feel him there without either of them needing to make it bigger than it is.
It's a long while before Jorge's breathing evens back out.
"Thanks," he says finally, low, like the word costs him.
"Don't thank me for sitting next to you."
"Wasn't thanking you for that."
Neither one of them says what it's actually for. Down the tier, the laundry cart squeaks its way toward the next block, and Jorge watches it go like it's carrying something a lot bigger than everybody's ruined sheets.