She sighs, folding a finished shirt. “I did something bad.”
“According to who?” I ask, my brows narrowed.
Amber turns to me and offers a weak smile. “Everyone, I guess. I didn’t have many defenders.”
I nod, wanting to pry deeper but not so blatantly. “Why not? You don’t seem like a bad person to me.”
“I’m not,” she says, reaching for the next stack of fabric. “But I had… a situation… and I made a bad choice. If I’d walked away, I wouldn’t be here.”
“It’s never a bad choice to do what’s right.”
Her smile fades. She holds out her cuffed hands. “I don’t regret my actions… but was it worth the cost I’ve paid? I don’t know.”
I suppose she has a point. Too many times I’ve imagined what would have happened if I hadn’t gone to that party, and never met Lance. It’s comforting to think that he’s in the hospital, comatose, unable to hurt anyone ever again — but if I could be out there instead of in here… how could I want anything else?
“I think I understand,” I say. “But, how did you get here, instead of a regular prison?”
“They offered me five years instead of twenty. It sounded too good to pass up.”
Twenty years? Holy shit. She wasn’t kidding. I try not to stare in disbelief, but it’s hard to imagine her doing something so violent she could receive such a sentence. “How long have you been here?”
“Two, but-”
She stops.
I turn to look around, but the guards are still all the way across the room. “What?”
She sighs. “Two, but it feels like ten.”
Oh.
“Yeah. I should have stayed in the real jail. But, I didn’t know.”
“At least you’ll be out eventually,” I say, trying to find a silver lining. “You’ll have all those years of your life that you wouldn’t.”
It’s then that Amber’s exterior calm breaks completely — she lets out a sob, and falling tears darken her uniform. “You don’t understand.”
Hearing the clicks of handcuffs, I notice the cutters have locked away their scissors and are headed back to the vacant sewing tables; the guards will be returning to their rounds imminently. “What is it?”
Amber shuts her eyes and sniffles. “We’re slaves, Quinn. We’ll never be free.”
“That’s not true,” I argue, needing to convince myself as much as her. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” she mutters.
No. I refuse to believe that. I don’t care how long she’s been here — I am not going to let them take my life away from me.
“We’ll find a way,” I say.
“I wish I could believe you, Quinn, but you’re wrong.”
I nearly jump as a hand lands on my shoulder.
“You should listen to her,” says Byron. “Amber’s accepted reality, haven’t you?”
Amber freezes solid, staring straight ahead, not making a sound — it’s as if she thinks Byron is a tyrannosaur.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Byron chides. “I know it’s been a while, but how could you forget? I said the first resident to talk to Quinn would be punished.”