The Scapegoat's Return: Watch Me Shine Now

The heavy steel door slammed shut.

The sound was not a metaphor. It was a physical force that hit the back of Crysta's skull, traveled down her spine, and vibrated in her molars.

She stood on the cracked concrete. The sunlight hit her retinas like shattered glass. She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands rising to shield her face. For three years, her world had been lit by the sickly yellow hum of fluorescent tubes. This natural light physically hurt.

"Miller."

Crysta opened her eyes. Correctional Officer Sean McCoy stood on the other side of the yellow line. His face held the exact same expression he used when ordering inmates to strip for contraband checks.

"You are free," McCoy said. His voice was flat, devoid of any human inflection. "Do not come back."

He turned his back and walked away. The secondary gate buzzed and locked behind him.

Crysta looked down at her hands. She was wearing a gray sweat suit issued by the state. It was two sizes too big. The fabric scratched against her collarbones. In her right hand, she held a thin manila envelope. It contained her release papers, a plastic ID card, and twenty-seven dollars.

Twenty-seven dollars. That was the exact monetary value of three years of her life, earned by scrubbing toilets and mopping vomit in Cell Block D.

She looked up. The highway stretched out in front of her, a gray ribbon cutting through dead, brown dirt. There were no buildings. There were no people. The nearest bus station was five miles away.

Her stomach contracted. A sharp, acidic pain twisted just below her ribs. She had not eaten since the watery oatmeal at 5:00 AM.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel made her flinch. Her right hand immediately went to her left wrist, her thumb rubbing the raw skin where the plastic identification band had lived for over a thousand days.

An old, rusted Ford pickup truck pulled out of the prison visitor parking lot. Crysta stepped back, pressing her spine against the chain-link fence. She wanted nothing to do with anyone who had business at this facility.

The truck did not pass her. It slowed down and stopped. The passenger window rolled down with a mechanical squeal.

A woman leaned over the center console. She had deep lines around her mouth and tired, kind eyes.

"Need a ride, child?" the woman asked. Her voice was soft. "Going to the bus terminal in town?"

Crysta froze. Her thumb dug harder into her left wrist. In the driver's seat, a young man gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. He stared at Crysta with hard, suspicious eyes.

Crysta's throat was coated in dust. She tried to speak, but her vocal cords refused to work. Isolation had stolen her ability to engage in casual conversation. She swallowed hard, forcing saliva down her dry throat.

She nodded.

"Thank you," she rasped.

She pulled the heavy metal door handle and climbed into the back seat.