Page 90 of Malaise
“You’ll need this secured for your entire visit. It’s your identification, and your insurance policy to make sure you get where you need to go with minimal disruption. Should it become damaged, or become loose, alert the nearest officer to you.”
I nod, my heart thundering in my ears.
She slips her hand over mine after attaching the band, and smiles. “First time?”
Words fail me, so I nod yet again like a stupid fucking dashboard novelty.
“Despite how it might seem, we’re here to help. If you feel unsure about anything, just say so, and we’ll do our best to explain or answer your questions.”
“Thank you.”
“Now.” She slips her hand away and points to the corridor to her left. “Head that way and you’ll see the officers at check-in. You’ll be wanded, and if they deem necessary, a rub-down search will be undertaken. You’ll then be directed to the visitors’ room, where an officer will show you to your table. You are entitled to a greeting hug and/or kiss, and one on departure. Other than that, there is to be no touching between you and the prisoner.”
“Understood.”
“You will need to check in with me on departure also.”
A family of three arrives behind me, and I’m overcome by the need to get moving to stop holding other people up—people who appear more experienced and less skittish than I am.
The woman behind the desk gives me a nod to indicate I can leave, and I hotfoot it around the reception desk to follow the corridor. Three coloured lines are painted on the floor, and memories of the same system being used at the hospital when Den was hurt as a kid flash through my head.
What would you think of this, big bro? His little sis visiting her criminal beau in the slammer?
I reach the next station, and promptly go through the motions: emptying my pockets into a plastic tray and lifting my arms so the middle-aged guy with a little more paunch on his midsection than I would have thought corrections officers are allowed, can wand me. The handheld device does its horrible whirr and beeps, and I’m guided through to collect my things again before we start down another corridor to the visitors’ room.
The closer we get, the more signs that show we’re just around the corner, the harder my heart beats, and the tougher it is to breathe. A set of double doors halts the officer’s progress, and I pull in a deep breath as he reaches out a hand to push them open.
This is it.
I’m about to see Carver for the first time in two weeks.
And I don’t have a clue what to say first.