Haven
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The gates of Braxton State Prison slammed shut behind Paul Greymore and for the first time in almost seventeen years he was outside of them. He looked around, mildly unnerved by the unfamiliar openness of his surroundings, and lit a cigarette. He took a deep breath and began walking toward the parking lot, constantly turning his head back and forth, up and down, taking in all the sights he once thought he would never see again without the obstruction of a twelve-foot wall. He half expected a heavy hand to fall on his shoulder, turn him around, tell him there was a mistake. But not once did he look back. He had been looking at the inside of those goddamn walls for too long and had no interest in seeing them again from either side.
He reached the parking lot and immediately spotted Father Neil McCarthy waiting for him. The old priest looked like a mirage with the heat coming off the asphalt in waves making him seem ghostlike. In Paul’s sensory overloaded mind he feared the man might disappear if he blinked his eyes. He shook his head at this bizarre thought and jogged over smiling. He stepped on his cigarette and extended a hand to the old priest, thought better of it, and hugged him. The old man patted Paul’s back lightly, then took his shoulders and held him at arm’s length. Neither man knew what to say, so they remained silent. The moment stretched and finally McCarthy broke the awkward quiet. “Let’s get going,” was the best he could do.