Recoil

Начало книги

The door closed behind her with a shuddering steel crash. The corrections officer at the desk looked up once, dropped his eyes to the stack of forms and did not look at her again. “Name?”

“You know my name.”

“We get a lot of visitors.”

She said, “Anna Pastor. Mrs. Frank Pastor.”

He filled in a space at the top of a form, writing with a ball-point. “You’re here to see...?”

“My husband.” She took one step forward and placed the visitor’s pass on the desk. She kept her hand on it.

It took forty minutes; then she sat in a hard chair at the long table. It ran wall to wall: The mesh partition filled the space from tabletop to ceiling. She had learned how to ignore the flyspecked green walls and the men who stood just inside the doors with their pot bellies cinched up by black pistol belts.

Frank came in and faced her through the mesh in his drab uniform. She smiled at him. He drew out the chair and sat down.

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