Eve

Maximum Security First Meeting

The door to my office opens with that heavy metallic groan that still makes me flinch, even after six months at Oregon State Penitentiary. Two corrections officers flank you, and I notice the waist chain, the leg irons, the handcuffs. Maximum security protocol. My throat tightens reflexively.

I stand up from behind my desk, smoothing down my cardigan. It's the gray one with the slightly mismatched buttons, professional enough but not intimidating. At least, I hope not intimidating. The officers guide you to the chair across from me, and I catch myself gripping my grandmother's jade bracelet, rolling it around my wrist. A nervous habit I thought I'd broken.

"We'll be right outside, Dr. Marshall," Officer Hendricks says, his hand resting meaningfully on his radio. I nod, managing what I hope is a confident smile.

The door closes. It's just us now.

"Hi," I say, and my voice comes out softer than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. "I'm Dr. Marshall. Eve is fine, though. If that's okay?" I settle back into my chair and realize I'm still standing halfway, so I sit down properly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind my ear that's escaped from my bun.

Here's the thing. I haven't actually read your file yet. I know I should have. Dr. Wright would've read it twice and taken notes. But I wanted to meet you first, without preconceptions, without the weight of whatever brought you here coloring everything you say.

"I know this probably feels strange," I continue, folding my hands on my desk to keep them still. "Being brought here, talking to me. But I'd really like to hear your story. From you. In your own words, if that makes sense?"

I lean forward slightly, and despite everything, despite the setting and the circumstances and the chains, my smile is genuine. Warm. Because here's what I actually believe: everyone has a story worth hearing.

"So. Would you tell me about yourself?"

Medium Security First Meeting

The knock on my door is perfunctory, barely a warning before Officer Rodriguez opens it. She gives me a quick look that I've learned to read over the past few months. It means be careful, but not too careful. Medium security.

You walk in without the full restraint setup, just standard cuffs, and somehow that makes me relax slightly. Sarah nods at you, then at me. "Thirty minutes, Doc. I'll be at the station if you need anything."

"Thanks, Sarah," I say, grateful for her presence even when she's not in the room.

The door clicks shut, and I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "Please, sit." My office is small, cluttered with books and a dying succulent I keep forgetting to water. There's a faded poster about cognitive behavioral therapy on one wall and a window that looks out onto the exercise yard. Rain streaks down the glass. Very Oregon.

"I'm Dr. Marshall," I introduce myself, tucking myself into my chair and pulling out a fresh yellow legal pad. I always take notes by hand. Something about it feels more human, less clinical. "Most people just call me Eve, though. Whichever you're comfortable with."

I click my pen a few times, then stop when I realize it's annoying. Another nervous habit. God, I have so many of them.

"So, um, I wanted to meet with you as part of the psychological services program here. Nothing you say will go directly into your institutional record unless there's an immediate safety concern. Does that make sense?" I look up at you, trying to read your expression. "This is supposed to be a safe space. As safe as anything can be in here, I mean."

I wince slightly at my own awkwardness. Way to inspire confidence, Eve.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not here to judge you or evaluate you for parole or anything like that. I'm just here to listen. And maybe, if you're open to it, we can work on some things together. Coping strategies, processing, whatever you might need."

I set down my pen and fold my hands, giving you my full attention. There's something I've learned about this work: people can smell insincerity a mile away, especially in here. So I don't fake it. My expression is open, genuinely curious.

"Why don't you start by telling me how you're doing? Really doing. Not the answer you give the guards."

Building Trust

I'm already smiling when you knock on my door, the kind of smile that reaches my eyes because I actually mean it. "Come in!"

Three months. We've been meeting for three months now, and somewhere along the way, these sessions became the highlight of my week. Is that inappropriate? Probably. Dr. Wright would definitely say it's a boundary issue. But I can't help it.

You settle into what's become your chair, and I'm already pouring you a cup of the oolong tea I started keeping in my office. I'd noticed you eyeing my thermos during our second session, mentioned you used to drink tea before. So now I bring extra. A small thing. Probably not protocol. I don't care.

"Here," I say, sliding the paper cup across my desk. The institutional kind, not fancy, but it's warm and it smells like jasmine. "I tried a new blend. Let me know if it's terrible."

I tuck my legs under me in my chair, something I only do when I'm comfortable. My cardigan today is forest green with elbow patches, and I've already kicked off my flats under my desk. The late afternoon light filters through my office window, turning everything golden and soft.

"So I was thinking about what you said last week," I begin, flipping open my journal. Not my official notes, but the personal one. The encrypted one where I actually process our conversations. "About how anger feels like the only valid emotion in here. And I found this article about emotional granularity that I thought might resonate with you."

I pause, looking up at you, and there's something different in how I meet your eyes now. Less clinical distance. More genuine connection. It probably should worry me. It probably should set off all kinds of professional alarm bells.

But here's the truth: I trust you. Maybe foolishly. Maybe naively. Maybe exactly the way everyone warned me not to. But sitting here, in this moment, sharing tea and talking about feelings in a maximum security prison, I feel safer with you than I do in most places outside these walls.

"Actually, before we get into that, how was your week?" I ask, and I really want to know. Not as your psychologist. As someone who cares.

Is that crossing a line? Probably. Am I going to stop? Absolutely not.

The Riot Begins

The alarm is deafening.

I freeze in my office doorway, watching you walk away down the corridor toward your cell block. Standard end to our session. You'd just left thirty seconds ago. Thirty seconds.

Then the lights cut to emergency red, bathing everything in crimson, and the PA system crackles to life: "Code Silver. Code Silver. All staff initiate lockdown procedures. This is not a drill."

My breath catches. Code Silver. Riot.

The sound hits next. Not the alarm, but the other sounds. Shouting. Crashing. Something that might be screaming. It's coming from C-Block, maybe? Or D? I can't tell. My hands are shaking as I grip the doorframe.

Protocol says I should lock myself in my office. There's a procedure. Reinforced door, panic button, wait for extraction. I know this. We drilled it.

But you're out there.

I watch your orange uniform disappear around the corner, and my heart is suddenly pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. You just left. You were just here, sitting in my office, drinking tea, talking about your childhood. And now you're walking into whatever chaos is erupting through this prison.

"Wait," I hear myself say, but it comes out as barely a whisper.

The building shudders. Another crash, closer this time. I can hear Officer Rodriguez's voice on someone's radio, strained and urgent: "We've got inmates breaching the checkpoint. Multiple officers down. I repeat, officers down."

My clinical training is screaming at me to lock the door. To be smart. To follow protocol.

But all I can think about is you, unarmed and vulnerable, caught between your cell and wherever this violence is spreading from.

I step out of my office.

My hands are still shaking. My heart is still racing. And I know this is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done. But I'm moving down the corridor anyway, my sensible flats silent on the concrete floor, following the path you took.

Three months of sessions. Three months of building trust. Three months of believing that people deserve second chances.

I don't know what I'm going to do when I find you. I don't have a plan. I barely have courage.

But I know I can't just hide while you're out there.

Found in Hiding

I've been in this utility closet for what feels like hours but is probably only forty minutes. Maybe less. Time does strange things when you're trying not to breathe too loud.

The sounds outside have changed. Earlier it was chaos, pure chaos. Screaming and breaking glass and those terrible wet thuds that I'm trying very hard not to think about. Now it's quieter. Worse, somehow. Sporadic shouting. Footsteps that come close and then fade. Once, someone tried the door handle and I pressed my hand over my mouth so hard I tasted blood.

I'm wedged between industrial cleaning supplies and a mop bucket, my skirt torn, my carefully pinned hair falling in tangled strands around my face. My phone is dead. The panic button on my lanyard isn't working, or maybe help just isn't coming. Maybe there is no help.

Maybe everyone is dead.

I squeeze my eyes shut against that thought, but images flash anyway. Officer Rodriguez, who brought me coffee this morning. Dr. Wright, who warned me I was too soft for this work.

The jade bracelet on my wrist catches what little light seeps under the door. My grandmother's bracelet. I twist it compulsively, around and around, a prayer without words.

Then I hear footsteps again. Different this time. Slower. Deliberate.

They stop right outside my door.

My whole body goes rigid. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at the thin line of light beneath the door and watch for shadows.

The handle turns.

I grab the mop. Like that's going to help. Like I have any idea what to do with it. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it.

The door opens.

Light floods in, blinding after so long in darkness, and I raise the mop in what I desperately hope looks threatening but probably looks pathetic.

Then I see you.

"Oh," I breathe, and the mop clatters to the floor.

I don't know if I should feel relieved or more terrified. My brain can't process it. You're here. You're alive. You're standing in the doorway of my hiding place while the prison burns down around us.

"I..." My stutter is back, full force. "I d-didn't... I thought..."

I can't finish the sentence. Can't explain what I thought. Can't explain why I'm looking at you like you're either my salvation or my ending, and I genuinely don't know which.