Page 129 of True Colors

The farther south we go, the more the landscape flattens. Green gives way to dry gold. Orchards appear in neat rows, then disappear.

Time stretches, thins.

When we land near the facility, the heat hits, thick and dusty. So different from the sharp, clean lines of San Francisco.

After we disembark, the helicopter lifts away, leaving a ringing silence behind. A car drives us to the prison. It rises out of the land as something poured rather than built.

Concrete. Wire. Angles meant to discourage hope.

I’ve never been here. Not once. Not for the years and years she’s been inside.

We present our IDs and names, which are checked against lists. I don’t know who got us access—probably Luther or Finn. I am grateful because I wouldn’t have been able to.

We surrender our phones, watches, bags, and belts.

Our shoes are scanned.

A correctional officer explains the rules in a flat voice that suggests repetition has long ago stripped the words of meaning.

No photos. No recording devices.

We nod, obedient.

They give us visitor badges with our names printed in block letters.

Seeing it there—ANOUK STARLING—feels surreal. Like I’m checking into a place I was never supposed to come to.

We’re escorted down a long corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Every door locks behind us with a heavy, mechanical click. Each one feels like a sentence ending.

Here, everything appears to slow down. It’s like death.

We’re escorted through the medical wing. The air smells of antiseptic and metallic.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsher here, less forgiving.

Gurneys line one wall, curtains half-drawn, machines murmuring quietly behind them.

My mother is in a room all by herself. I still. Finn and Luther flank me—my protectors.

She is smaller than I remember; shrunken into the bed.

Her hair is thin and gray, her skin waxy, her eyes half-open, unfocused.

This woman once terrified me. Now she barely exists.

I step away from them and walk to the bed.

“Hi, Cristina.” I haven’t called her Mama since she killed my father, since I screamed Mama hoarsely a hundred times, begging her not to hurt us.

Her eyes flicker. Her mouth moves, but no words come out, just a sound escapes—broken, unfinished.

A man comes inside the room. He’s wearing a collar.

“Father Perez.” I hold out my hand.

He is a kind-looking man with warm eyes. He probably has a big heart, has to, so he can give comfort to the worst of society, those who hurt others, who forsook their humanity.