THE WARDEN STRODE ACROSS THE YARD of the prison, his hands behind his back, each step echoing on the paved walkway and adding an air of authority to his gait. Michael walked behind him, his bedding stacked in his arms, two strides for the warden’s one, just to keep pace. A guard rounded out the informal parade. He was several steps behind the boy and seemed more focused on enjoying the fresh air and sunshine than worrying about the child doing anything foolish. From the windows of the cell blocks, heads looked out and wondered at the small inmate being led away.
They soon arrived at a small outbuilding that had not been actively used by the prison for some time. It had become a utility shed for the maintenance workers. The building was in its own fenced area, no yard attached to it. A large metal door hung on giant hinges. It was more of a brick hut. The warden opened the door and it squealed like a large beast emerging from the depth of the ocean and sucking in air for the first time in a millennium.
Two barred windows curtained the door, and the warden stepped inside and breathed the stale atmosphere. Michael stood on the step and peered inside.
The warden had the maintenance crew clean out the small enclosure of all their accumulated items. The only thing inside now was two rooms. One had a cell much like that of an old western town. It was an open cage, in it was a wood slat that the boy’s curled mattress would go on. A steel toilet, recently scrubbed, still looked as if nature was winning the war to rust it out of existence. Across from the cell stood another locked door with a thin window in it. Through the window Michael could see the remains of a large wooden chair. A throne. A king’s chamber that had not been occupied for years.
Michael took his place in the cell, unrolled his bedding, and sat down. The guard closed the cell door behind him and locked it with a key that was as old as the prison. The key was huge and stuck out amidst all the other keys the guard carried with him on the ring.
“You sure about this, Warden?” the guard asked.
“I am.”
“Just seems . . . I don’t know.”
“It’s the safest place for him. Safest for him, and safest for everyone else.”
“What if his lawyer catches wind of this? Or some bleeding-heart group. Keeping a kid in the old execution cell ain’t going to sound good on the news.”
“I know. But if the state refuses to provide a solution for him, I am left on my own to improvise. Segregation from the others will keep him out of harm’s way, and I can’t afford to clear a whole cell block for him.”
The guard stepped out of the door and back into the sunshine. He may have felt a twinge of guilt in his belly at leaving the kid out here, but the warden was right. There was no place to put him that would guarantee his safety. And the guard himself had been suffering from an unrelenting headache for months. When he caught wind that the boy had something to do with it, he also felt a sense of relief that this might just cure him. He walked back to his duties and left the warden with the boy.
“Now, you’ll be alright here. I have it worked out with the guards for them to swing out here on their rounds and make sure you’re doing fine. I’ll have some books brought out for you, and I’m working on getting a TV to keep you company.”
The warden turned and opened up the door to the king’s chamber. Michael watched him as he walked into the room, reached over his head to a pull chain that was next to a lightbulb, and tied a string to it. The warden unraveled the string and brought it back out through the door, tying the end to one of the bars on the cell.
“Now, this is a bit unorthodox, but if you have an emergency or anything, pull this string so the light comes on. I’ll be able to see it from my office. I’ll have it in mind to keep an eye for it. Other than that, the guards will be around.
“Same routine as usual: Breakfast, lunch, dinner, recreation.”
The warden stopped and gazed at the child.
Nothing in this world made sense anymore. During his career he had taken pride in bringing a firm hand to the state’s prison population, but being the keeper of this boy had made him feel more like the devil than a man of justice. He turned to leave when he heard the small voice of the boy.
“Warden . . . what’s that? In there?”
The warden looked and saw that the boy was pointing at the chair.
“That’s what we used to do to the worst of the worst.”
“Am I the worst?”
The warden thought about it. “You know, son, if you are, I don’t see it.”