Nightrise

as they approached. Jamie noticed a surveillance camera, mounted high above. It swiveled to follow him when he moved. The door led into a large, shabby room with a second officer sitting behind a desk with a computer. There were a couple of holding cells, some chairs — none of them matching — and a shower with a plastic curtain drawn half across. There were no windows. The room was lit by strip lighting. Mercifully, after the furnace of the courtyard, it was air-conditioned.
    "Sit down!" It was the second guard who had spoken. He was casually dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt.
    Jamie saw that he carried no weapon. He was a man in his forties, with black hair tied behind his neck.
    He obviously had Native American blood, and Jamie wondered if that might make him more sympathetic to Jamie. But his manner was brisk and formal.
    "My name is Joe Feather," the man said. "But you call me Mr. Feather or sir. I'm the intake officer and I'm going to process you and then show you into Orientation. Do you understand?"
    Jamie nodded.
    "You're going to find it tough here. You've had a spell in juvie — is that right?"
    ''Yeah."
    "Well then, you know the basics. Keep your head down. Do as you're told. It'll make it easier on you."
    He nodded at the other guard. 'You can take off the shackles."
    Jamie's hands and feet were unfastened and gratefully he moved his legs apart. There were red marks across his wrists and he rubbed them. In the next twenty minutes, his details were entered into the computer…or, at least, the details of Jeremy Rabb, the boy he was supposed to be. He had been up half the previous night with Alicia, memorizing them before he had been handed over to the police.
    "Go into the shower and strip," the intake officer told him. "I want all your clothes, including your shorts. You have any piercings?"
    Jamie shook his head.
    "Okay. I'll pass you your new uniform."
    Jamie went into the shower and drew the curtain. But it seemed he wasn't going to be given any privacy.
    The side wall of the shower contained a window, looking into a storeroom, and as Jamie stood under the running water, he was aware of Joe Feather examining him from the other side. Jamie had been through strip searches when he was in juvenile hall, but even so, he was embarrassed and turned away. That was when the officer saw the tattoo on his shoulder.
    "Mr. Rabb…" Joe Feather spoke the words softly. "Turn off the shower."
    Jamie did as he was told. He stood with drops of water trickling down his shoulders and back.
    "Where did you get that tattoo?" the intake officer demanded.
    "I've always had it. It was done when I was born."
    ''You have a brother?"
    Jamie froze. Had he been recognized already? "I don't have a brother," he said.
    "No brother?"
    "No, sir."
    Joe Feather handed him a bundle of prison-issue clothes. It fitted through a slot beneath the window.
    "Put these on," he said. "I'll take you in."

    ***
    Jamie was the ninety-sixth boy to arrive at Silent Creek. The prison could hold one hundred total with ten full-time guards — or supervisors, as they called themselves — to watch over them. There were four living units — North, South, East, and West — and life was arranged so that the inmates were kept apart as much as possible. That way, rival gang members barely saw each other and never spoke. Each unit ate at a different time — there were four sittings for every meal — and there were four exercise times in the prison gym. The age range went from thirteen to eighteen.
    There were rules for everything. The boys had to walk with their hands clasped behind their backs. They weren't allowed to talk while they moved and they couldn't go anywhere, not even the toilet, without adult supervision. They were watched constantly, either by supervisors or surveillance cameras. They were patted down after every meal, and if a single plastic fork went missing, they were all strip-searched. There were six hours of school every morning, two hours of recreation (in the gym — it was too hot outside), and two hours of TV. Only sport was allowed — never movies or news. The prison uniform consisted of blue tracksuit pants, gray T-shirts, and sneakers. All the colors had been chosen carefully. Nothing was black or bright red. Those were gang colors and might be enough to provoke a fight.
    Life at the prison was not brutal, but it was boring. There were library books for the boys who could read, but otherwise every day was the same,