Page 75 of Butterfly 6, Phase 1

“Bitch,” she mumbled as she walked out the front door. It was the second time Mara had rubbed her the wrong way, and if she had more time, she would talk to Ethic about it, but she was in a rush to get back to Yara, so she let it go. She knew Eazy would call her if he needed her, but something about Mara just didn’t sit right.

Morgan picked up her phone and shifted her eyes between the road and the Google search bar.

She typed in Dr. Pratha’s name.

Ethic needs to get that bitch out his house. I don’t even like her energy, Morgan thought. She pulled up the doctor’s office number and pressed Call. As far as Morgan was concerned, they could send a whole different nurse out. She didn’t trust Mara as far as she could throw her. It’s like she was there to assist Ethic more than Alani, Morgan thought. Morgan was sure Ethic could handle himself, but Morgan felt the need to protect Alani. She hadn’t always been team Alani, but now that she was family, Morgan wasn’t about to play behind her either. It had taken years for them to find their own bond, and Morgan respected Alani enough to shut this Mara shit down before it ever became an issue. Morgan wasn’t even sure there was an issue, but she was learning to trust her intuition. The last time she had ignored it, Bleu fucked her nigga. The answering service picked up the call, and Morgan left a message.

“Dr. Pratha, this is Alani Okafor’s stepdaughter. I’m calling to discuss a matter with you regarding your nurse, Mara Benton. If you could please give me a call back at your earliest convenience, that would be great. I can be reached at…” Before she could even recite her phone number, she saw the red, white, and blue lights in her rearview.

“What the hell?” she mumbled, hanging up the phone. She was just merging onto the expressway, and there was barely a shoulder to pull onto, so she continued to drive. “Hey Siri, call Ethic,” she announced.

The police turned on their sirens, giving her a warning to pull over.

“What’s up, Mo?” Ethic answered. “Can I call you back in a bit? I’m taking care of…”

“I’m being pulled over,” Morgan said.

“What?” Ethic’s voice changed.

“I just left the house less than ten minutes ago. As soon as I merged onto the expressway, the police jumped behind me,” Morgan said.

Morgan glanced in her rearview mirror, and panic filled her. “There are two cars now. They both have their lights on.”

“That’s not a traffic stop, Mo,” Ethic said. “They’re about to arrest you.”

“What?” Morgan shrieked. “Why? But they let me go!”

“I don’t know, but I want you to pull over, put your hands on the wheel. Don’t resist. Don’t say anything. Don’t get smart with them. Just comply. Let them cuff you and take you in. I’m on my way.” His voice was calm, direct, and controlled, but Morgan was freaking out.

“Ethic, I’m scared,” Morgan said as she pulled over onto the shoulder. Traffic zipped by her as she placed both hands on the steering wheel in front of her.

“I know,” Ethic replied. “Ask for Einstein, and don’t say another word until he or I lay eyes on you. No matter what, Morgan. Tell me you understand.”

With her eyes in the rearview mirror and her hands glued to the steering wheel, she replied, “I understand.”

“Killing Me Softly with His Song” by Fugees

Hendrix looked at the sunlight at the edge of the window. His face was swollen so badly that his right eye was almost swollen shut. His orbital socket was broken, and the light that snuck through burned his eye terribly. He looked anyway, craving warmth, craving feeling because he couldn’t feel shit. The window was too high to see out of, however. It almost touched the ceiling, and he wondered if they had been installed that way to create a silent yearning for the view on the other side. He wished they were lower. He didn’t even need to see out of them; he just wanted to feel the sun on his skin. It was the little shit he had taken for granted. Even when he didn’t have a roof over his head, he had more to be grateful for than he did inside these walls. He would take a free tunnel over a sheltered cell any day. He may have been exposed to the elements when he was homeless, but he would rather fight nature than the inhumanity that existed inside these walls. The infirmary had patched him up. He had a lacerated spleen, internal bleeding, a broken orbital socket, and three broken ribs. The warden had grilled him for an hour, asking who was responsible. Hendrix hadn’t uttered a word. He had never been, nor would he ever be, a snitch.

Hendrix sat on the top bunk, with his back against the concrete wall. His eyes hawked the open cell door as he took the end of a toothbrush across the wall. It would take him all day, but he was determined to sharpen it to a point.

It had taken them hours to even wake him up. The concussion he suffered from the beating had sent his body into shock and caused swelling in his brain. He couldn’t be hit like that again. He wouldn’t survive it. He told himself the next man who ever put his hands on him would die. He didn’t care if he had to spend the rest of his life behind bars behind it. He had already lost everything anyway. He wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight or any other night going forward. The guards played too dirty; they didn’t maintain order. He didn’t know what type of pull the man who had attacked him had. If he had the right kind of sway inside, he could come back and finish the job. Guarding himself and what little he owned was an around-the-clock job. He would try to keep his head down, but his age alone made him a target. He was vulnerable in this prison, and he knew it. He had been paired with a non-violent offender. His lawyer had made sure to emphasize that fact, as if it made a difference, as if safety existed for a teenage boy behind these bars.

“You need help with that, baby boy?”

Hendrix may as well have been deaf. He wasn’t saying shit to anybody. He would say the least to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. He glanced up and then turned his attention back to his makeshift weapon.

“Yeah, a’ight, you got a long stretch in here, boy. That silent shit only gon’ last for so long before somebody make you talk. Niggas in here want to be dominant. You refuse to talk, and all of a sudden, these niggas in here want to hear you scream. They’re savages that way. This cage turns men to animals. You giving them a challenge ain’t smart,” the man stated. “You see what happened this time.”

Hendrix didn’t know where the man had been during the attack. He hadn’t met him until he was returned to his cell. He hadn’t been too friendly. He was guarded and weary. He accepted no help, and he was always ready for conflict. Hendrix ignored the man. He low-key didn’t trust him either. Ruffin was his name, and he earned it with every old-school song he hummed, as he made his way through the halls of this hellhole. From sunup to sundown, the man could be heard singing or whistling a tune. He was older, mid-50s, maybe even 60 years old, if Hendrix had to guess, and time had preserved him well. He was three times Hendrix’s size, with 40 years’ worth of prison muscles stacked on top of his frame. The ink from the prison tattoos told Hendrix a story of a man who knew his way around these walls.

Hendrix never turned his back on his cellmate. Ever. He had never felt a fear quite like this. His nervous system was rapid-firing, begging him to flee this place, only there was no exit in sight.

Hendrix’s focus never left his project.

“A’ight, you better recognize an ally when you see one, young homie,” the man stated. “That shiv ain’t gon’ do shit if you don’t put some weight on you. You’re too small. You need muscle. Pushups. Five hundred a day. Get out on the yard, come by the rec, I’ll spot you. And keep your eyes open tonight. Don’t be where they think you gon’ be.”

Henny looked at Ruffin, finally, heeding what was an obvious warning. They were coming to finish the job. Henny’s nostrils flared as he panicked inside but showed no emotion outside. He had to finish his shank, or he wouldn’t survive the night.