The prison yard was a concrete slab baked hard by the Georgia sun, ringed with chain-link and topped with coils of wire that glinted like teeth. Marcus leaned against the wall, his jumpsuit sticking to his skin, watching the other inmates circle—some lifting weights, others trading smokes, all of them moving to a rhythm he was still learning seven months in. His hands itched for a wrench, a pencil, anything to keep them busy, but all he had was time, stretching out in front of him like a road with no end.

He’d heard from Darius that morning—a rare call, patched through the counselor’s office after weeks of silence. “Found Kev,” Darius had said, voice low and clipped. “Holed up in Macon, strung out. Says he did it—pawned the cash, pinned it on you. Won’t talk to no cops, though.” Marcus had gripped the phone, hope flaring sharp and brief before Darius killed it: “He’s a mess, man. Might bolt again.”

Now, out in the yard, Marcus replayed it, his jaw tight. Kev—the skinny bastard who’d begged for that ride, who’d smiled while he sank him. If he could get him to Ortiz, get a statement, it might crack the appeal wide open. But Kev was a ghost, always had been, and Darius wasn’t exactly a rock to lean on. Marcus needed more, something solid, and the only place to find it was here, among the men who’d already written their own endings.

He spotted Big Ray across the yard, a hulking ex-con with a gray braid and a rep for knowing things. Ray had been in since ‘98—drugs, assault, a laundry list—and he’d taken a shine to Marcus after he’d fixed a busted radio for the block. Marcus pushed off the wall, weaving through the crowd, and slid up beside him on the bleachers.

“Ray,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Need a favor.”

Ray didn’t look up, just kept peeling an orange with a thumbnail. “Favors cost, kid. What you got?”

“Name’s Kev,” Marcus said, leaning in. “Skinny, twitchy, outta East Atlanta. Word is he’s in Macon now, running from something he did. You got ears outside—can you pin him down?”

Ray popped a segment into his mouth, chewing slow. “Maybe. What’s he to you?”

“Put me here,” Marcus said, the words bitter. “Set me up for a robbery I didn’t do. Need him to talk.”

Ray grunted, a sound that could’ve meant anything. “I’ll ask around. But if he’s a junkie, he’s a wild card. You got a lady out there—let her hunt him.”

“She’s trying,” Marcus said, picturing Lena’s face through the glass, her hand pressed to his. “But she’s stretched thin.”

“Then you’re both stretched,” Ray said, tossing the peel into the dirt. “I’ll see what I hear. No promises.”

Marcus nodded, gratitude mixing with the churn in his gut. He’d write Lena tonight, tell her about Kev, push her to lean on Darius harder. But the letters felt thinner lately—hers shorter, his heavier, like they were pulling apart thread by thread.

Meanwhile, in Atlanta, Lena sat across from Elliot at a Midtown bar, the clink of glasses and hum of laughter wrapping around them like a cocoon. It was their third dinner in two weeks, the project an excuse that had worn thin, replaced by something unspoken but real. He’d ordered bourbon, she’d stuck to water, and they’d fallen into a rhythm—easy talk about work, then quieter stuff, like how he’d built a treehouse as a kid, how she’d once painted a mural on a foster home wall.

“You’re good at this,” he said, swirling his drink, his eyes steady on hers. “Making people feel seen.”

She smiled, small and tight. “Comes with the territory. You get used to reading rooms.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “What do you see in this one?”

Her pulse quickened, Marcus’s last letter flashing in her mind—Miss you. Trust Ortiz. “I see… someone who’s too nice for his own good,” she said, deflecting with a tease.

“Nice isn’t a crime,” he replied, grinning, but his hand brushed hers on the table, a touch that lingered. She didn’t pull away, and that scared her more than the bourbon on his breath.

Back home, she’d find his letter waiting, the ink smudged with hope about Kev. But tonight, with Elliot’s warmth beside her, the distance grew—a gap she felt but couldn’t bridge, pulling her between two men, two lives, and a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

Back in his cell, Marcus sat on the edge of his bunk, the concrete cold through the thin mattress. The block was quiet now, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional cough from down the row. He pulled a stubby pencil from under his pillow—contraband he’d traded a pack of ramen for—and a sheet of paper Ray had slipped him, creased but clean. He’d write Lena, tell her about Kev, keep it straight and simple. No room for the mess in his head, the way the walls pressed closer every night, whispering he’d die here.

He started, the pencil scratching loud in the silence:

Lena,

Got word from Darius—Kev’s in Macon, messed up but talking. Says he did it, pinned it on me. Won’t go to the cops, though—too scared or too high. I’m working a guy in here, Ray, to track him down. You gotta push Darius hard—make him drag Kev to Ortiz. This could be it, baby. The crack we need. I’m holding up, sketching some. Miss you bad. Tell me you’re good.

Love, Marcus

He paused, rereading it, the words feeling thin against the weight he carried. He wanted to say more—about the fight last week, the shank he’d dodged, the way he woke up reaching for her and found nothing but air. But that’d scare her, and she was stretched enough. He folded the paper, slid it into an envelope, and handed it to the guard on the night round, his chest tight with a hope he couldn’t trust.

Two days later, Lena found it in her mailbox, the envelope stamped with the prison’s stark logo. She’d just gotten home from the bar with Elliot, her head buzzing—not from booze, but from the way his hand had lingered on hers, the way she’d let it. She dropped her keys on the counter, the clatter loud in the empty apartment, and tore the letter open, sinking onto the couch as Marcus’s blocky scrawl filled her vision.

She read it twice, her fingers tracing the lines, his voice cutting through the haze. Kev in Macon—a lead, real this time, not just Darius’s half-assed hints. Her pulse jumped, adrenaline mixing with the guilt that had shadowed her all night. She pictured Marcus in that cell, hunched over the paper, his hands steady despite everything, and her throat closed up. Miss you bad. He always ended with that, like a plea she couldn’t answer right.

Elliot’s laugh echoed in her mind—low, warm, a sound that had felt good until now. They’d walked to her car after the bar, the night air cool against her skin, and he’d brushed her cheek with his knuckles, a question in his eyes. “You’re something else, Lena,” he’d said, soft, and she’d smiled, caught in the pull of it, before stepping back with a mumbled goodnight. She hadn’t kissed him—wouldn’t—but the want had been there, sharp and real, and it terrified her.

Now, with Marcus’s letter in her lap, that want turned sour, twisting into something she couldn’t face. She grabbed her phone, dialing Darius before she could second-guess it. He picked up on the fourth ring, groggy and pissed. “Lena? It’s damn near midnight—”

“Kev’s in Macon,” she cut in, voice hard. “Marcus says you found him. Why didn’t you tell me?”

A pause, then a rustle as he sat up. “Was gonna. He’s a wreck—barely coherent. Didn’t wanna get your hopes up.”

“My hopes?” She laughed, sharp and cold. “He’s my husband, Darius. Seven years on the line, and you’re sitting on this? Get him to Ortiz—tomorrow—or I’m driving to Macon myself.”

“Alright, damn,” he muttered. “I’ll try. But he’s a flight risk—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She hung up, tossing the phone aside, and pressed Marcus’s letter to her chest, the paper crinkling against her heartbeat. She wanted to write back, tell him she’d fight, that she’d pull Kev out of whatever hole he’d dug. But Elliot’s touch lingered, a shadow on her loyalty, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that every step toward Marcus pulled her further from herself.

She stood, pacing to the window, the city lights smearing through the glass. The distance wasn’t just the miles to the prison—it was here, in her bones, growing with every choice she didn’t know how to make. She whispered his name—“Marcus”—into the dark, a tether fraying, and wondered how long she could hold on before it snapped.