The Wicked We Have Done

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Four minutes before the beginning of my sentence, Mom breaks down.

I thought it’d be easier; she’s had so long to prepare herself. My punishment was decided at the same time as my incarceration—six months ago—and I’d only seen her sporadically through a filthy glass window. But now she sobs into one bony hand while holding Todd’s wrist tightly with the other. With enough squirming, he’s able to break loose and run to me.

I squat down to Todd’s height. He eyes my polyester hoodie. Reaching out with pudgy fingers, he pinches the zipper.

He’s only five. I remember some things from that age—moving into a house, going to my first harvest carnival—but not everything. I wonder how he’ll remember me.

“Promise you won’t forget about me, ’kay, sport?”

Awareness floods him. “Where you going, Evie?”

“Just to take some tests. They need to keep me for a while, though.” I run my fingers through his dark, fine hair.

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