insensitive as a pair of boots.
The rest of his adaptation to prison happened just because it happened. His sunburn peeled and healed, and all the skin not covered by his shorts turned to a kind of leather resembling cordovan, save for the white scars memorializing his past. They never changed color, as if the story of his life were written on him in cuneiform, like a stele. He often told Gomez that he hated prison and wanted to die, but he only shrugged. Andy was a survivor—Gomez recognized the breed, being one himself—who just couldn't release his grip on life, even if he wanted to.
By the end of his hard first year, Li'l Brudda had turned from a college boy into a creature of bone, sinew, and cordlike muscles, a sort of hairless two-legged coyote, wary and silent and almost unkillable. His gray eyes gazed out of his sun-darkened face as if through a mask, and when he needed to convey a message he did it with lips unmoving, like a ventriloquist. He began fighting his own battles, winning some and losing others, but gaining respect in a world where respect was everything.
Gomez felt pride at the transformation. His own life had been mostly cruel and selfish, and he felt an unfamiliar glow because for once he'd done what was right, helped a dumb kid survive until he was ready to get along on his own. Improbably, the Yalie and the Latino burglar bonded and became brothers—the only kind that matter, those who stand together as allies against fate. And so they remained.
One day Stink took Gomez aside and gave him a new and unbelievable order—so unbelievable that he made the guard repeat it twice, to make sure he'd heard it right. Yet it confirmed his feeling that there was something uncanny about Andy, something exceptional, raro, extraordinario.
For the time being he said nothing, because a secret known to two people is a secret no longer. When Stink passed over several cons with more seniority to select them for a gang working outside the wire, he merely remarked bueno, bueno, that meant they were now trusties and would get a little more food. About that he was right, for next day at the predawn shape-up they received a breakfast of beans with shreds of real pork in it. Andy and the others ate like dogs, eyeing each other with suspicion, swallowing quickly and licking their plastic bowls clean. Then they fell into line and marched to the camp's Sea Gate, flip-flops crunching on ruler-straight streets of red gravel that other cons had pounded from lava.
On the way they passed rolls of razor wire threaded with sensors and a gleaming catapult with a drone whose missile, everyone knew, homed in on the ID chips in their necks. They crossed a three-meter death zone where the earth had been plowed and raked to show footprints, and at last reached the electrified perimeter fence. Military lasers craned down at them from ten-meter watchtowers as they passed one by one through a narrow postern. Sneak counted them out, his clipboard beeping when he touched it; he was chewing something and his bluish lower jaw moved slowly, like a ruminant's.
Then, wonder of wonders, Andy was outside the wire, and gaping at the amazing fact that the world was still there. Beyond a white line of foam at the coral reef, the Pacific glimmered bluely, the same ocean that touched America, Asia, the world. The air blew fresh and salty, and he was inhaling it in gulps when Gomez spotted Sneak sidling up, poked him in the ribs, and saved him from another caning.
They set about the day's work, unloading supplies from a freighter at the dock, cleaning the warden's house and the barracks in the cadre's compound, sweeping the blinding white concrete of the gyro landing pad and hosing it down with seawater. They ate lunch on the quay and at sundown shuffled back to camp—stick figures, all burned mahogany except the Africans, who were burned ebony. In the latrine they showered in seawater, wearing their shorts to wash them, too. Finally they
The rest of his adaptation to prison happened just because it happened. His sunburn peeled and healed, and all the skin not covered by his shorts turned to a kind of leather resembling cordovan, save for the white scars memorializing his past. They never changed color, as if the story of his life were written on him in cuneiform, like a stele. He often told Gomez that he hated prison and wanted to die, but he only shrugged. Andy was a survivor—Gomez recognized the breed, being one himself—who just couldn't release his grip on life, even if he wanted to.
By the end of his hard first year, Li'l Brudda had turned from a college boy into a creature of bone, sinew, and cordlike muscles, a sort of hairless two-legged coyote, wary and silent and almost unkillable. His gray eyes gazed out of his sun-darkened face as if through a mask, and when he needed to convey a message he did it with lips unmoving, like a ventriloquist. He began fighting his own battles, winning some and losing others, but gaining respect in a world where respect was everything.
Gomez felt pride at the transformation. His own life had been mostly cruel and selfish, and he felt an unfamiliar glow because for once he'd done what was right, helped a dumb kid survive until he was ready to get along on his own. Improbably, the Yalie and the Latino burglar bonded and became brothers—the only kind that matter, those who stand together as allies against fate. And so they remained.
One day Stink took Gomez aside and gave him a new and unbelievable order—so unbelievable that he made the guard repeat it twice, to make sure he'd heard it right. Yet it confirmed his feeling that there was something uncanny about Andy, something exceptional, raro, extraordinario.
For the time being he said nothing, because a secret known to two people is a secret no longer. When Stink passed over several cons with more seniority to select them for a gang working outside the wire, he merely remarked bueno, bueno, that meant they were now trusties and would get a little more food. About that he was right, for next day at the predawn shape-up they received a breakfast of beans with shreds of real pork in it. Andy and the others ate like dogs, eyeing each other with suspicion, swallowing quickly and licking their plastic bowls clean. Then they fell into line and marched to the camp's Sea Gate, flip-flops crunching on ruler-straight streets of red gravel that other cons had pounded from lava.
On the way they passed rolls of razor wire threaded with sensors and a gleaming catapult with a drone whose missile, everyone knew, homed in on the ID chips in their necks. They crossed a three-meter death zone where the earth had been plowed and raked to show footprints, and at last reached the electrified perimeter fence. Military lasers craned down at them from ten-meter watchtowers as they passed one by one through a narrow postern. Sneak counted them out, his clipboard beeping when he touched it; he was chewing something and his bluish lower jaw moved slowly, like a ruminant's.
Then, wonder of wonders, Andy was outside the wire, and gaping at the amazing fact that the world was still there. Beyond a white line of foam at the coral reef, the Pacific glimmered bluely, the same ocean that touched America, Asia, the world. The air blew fresh and salty, and he was inhaling it in gulps when Gomez spotted Sneak sidling up, poked him in the ribs, and saved him from another caning.
They set about the day's work, unloading supplies from a freighter at the dock, cleaning the warden's house and the barracks in the cadre's compound, sweeping the blinding white concrete of the gyro landing pad and hosing it down with seawater. They ate lunch on the quay and at sundown shuffled back to camp—stick figures, all burned mahogany except the Africans, who were burned ebony. In the latrine they showered in seawater, wearing their shorts to wash them, too. Finally they
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