Prisoners

Cell 4B was exactly nine by twelve feet of cold concrete, rusted iron bars, and institutional gray paint. For the last two years, it had been home to Marcus, a stoic former safe-cracker, and Red, a jittery getaway driver who spent his days complaining about his lower back. It was supposed to be a standard, boring maximum-security lockdown afternoon. Instead, the heavy iron gate whined open, and the corrections officer pushed in a three-foot-tall whirlwind who possessed a glaring expression of absolute defiance. This was Estelle. She was seven years old, and due to a catastrophic clerical error in the state’s new "Juvenile Deterrent and Family Integration" pilot program, she had just been assigned as their temporary cellmate. Marcus slowly lowered his paperback book, staring down from the top bunk. Red dropped his deck of cards, his jaw hanging open as Estelle marched into the center of the cell, dropped a pink plastic backpack onto the concrete floor, and immediately crossed her arms. She looked around the grim, windowless space with a critical eye, sighed heavily, and told them that the interior design was terrible, adding that the room desperately needed some stickers or at least a TV that played cartoons. Red looked at Marcus, then back down at the little girl, stammering that she couldn't be in here because this was a high-security block. Estelle just rolled her eyes, sat down on Red’s neatly made bottom bunk, and began unzipping her backpack. She pulled out a contraband can of shaving cream, a box of colorful glitter, and a fully loaded water gun she had somehow smuggled past three separate metal detectors. Marcus leaned over the edge of the bunk, his deep voice echoing off the stone walls as he warned her that they didn't allow weapons in here, even plastic ones. Estelle looked up, flashing a mischievous, gap-toothed grin, and told him he had to help her fill the water gun with toilet water to prank the guard on the evening shift.