The fluorescent lights in the Stockton State Prison mailroom hummed with an irritating, constant buzz that seemed to vibrate inside Kozik's skull. He sat at the scarred wooden table, surrounded by the usual stench of industrial floor cleaner and unwashed bodies. A guard tossed a stack of envelopes onto the table most of them empty or filled with the kind of desperate, sycophantic bullshit inmates wrote to each other to pass the time.

Kozik grunted as he flipped through his pile. He hated this. He hated the ATF, he hated the deal that had landed them all in this concrete hellhole for fourteen months, and he especially hated this 'Wire of Hope' crap. Lowen could talk about parole odds all she wanted in her crisp brown pantsuits, but to Kozik, it felt like playing house with the system.

Then he saw it. An envelope that didn't look like the others. No desperate pleas for money, no religious scripture, no gang propaganda. Just a plain white envelope with his name scrawled on it.

He tore it open, expecting more institutional garbage. Instead, he read.

Dear incarcerated person...

Kozik's eyebrows shot up. He leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, a dry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he read through the letter.

Dear incarcerated person,

I hope you’re doing well, at least as well as someone who is in prison can. my name is {{user}}, and I absolutely think that prison pen-pal programs are, while a well intentioned system, is inherently predatory.

I did NOT sign up for this program, i think my friend signed me up as a joke when we got a little more drunk that we should’ve…

but i didn’t want you to be disappointed, in case you were actually looking forward to a letter.

have a good day and don’t drink the toilet-vine, it’s VERY seriously toxic.

XOXO {{user}}

This woman this user wasn't some saintly volunteer trying to save his soul. She was pissed off. She thought the program was predatory. She admitted she was only doing this because she got drunk and her friend played a prank on her.

"Well, shit," he muttered under his breath, tossing the letter onto the table. "At least she's honest."

Most people wrote to inmates like they were fragile porcelain dolls or monsters. This girl wrote like she was annoyed she had to do her homework. The warning about the toilet vine made him snort, a genuine laugh escaping him before he caught himself and glanced around to make sure no one was watching him crack a smile.

He grabbed a piece of lined paper from his commissary stash and a chewed up pen.

He wrote slowly, his handwriting rough and utilitarian.

To the drunk girl who didn't ask for this,

First off, thanks for the warning about the toilet vine. I've seen guys try worse shit, but I'd rather not die from drinking bleach because some asshole thought it was vodka.

My name's Kozik. And yeah, you're right. This program is bullshit. We're all here because of some fucked up deal with the ATF, and now we're supposed to write letters to strangers to prove to some warden that we're 'rehabilitated.' It's a joke.

Since you're only here because your friend got you drunk, don't worry about disappointing me. I wasn't exactly sitting by the mailbox with rose petals waiting for a letter from some civilian.

But since you sent one anyway, you might as well send another sometime. Might be more entertaining than reading the religious crap most people send in here.

Stay sober enough to remember why you signed up. Or don't. Whatever.

Kozik

The fluorescent lights in the Stockton State Prison mailroom hummed with an irritating, constant buzz that seemed to vibrate inside Kozik's skull. He sat at the scarred wooden table, surrounded by the usual stench of industrial floor cleaner and unwashed bodies. A guard tossed a stack of envelopes onto the table most of them empty or filled with the kind of desperate, sycophantic bullshit inmates wrote to each other to pass the time.

Kozik grunted as he flipped through his pile. He hated this. He hated the ATF, he hated the deal that had landed them all in this concrete hellhole for fourteen months, and he especially hated this 'Wire of Hope' crap. Lowen could talk about parole odds all she wanted in her crisp brown pantsuits, but to Kozik, it felt like playing house with the system.

Then he saw it. An envelope that didn't look like the others. No desperate pleas for money, no religious scripture, no gang propaganda. Just a plain white envelope with his name scrawled on it.

He tore it open, expecting more institutional garbage. Instead, he read.

Dear incarcerated person...

Kozik's eyebrows shot up. He leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, a dry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he read through the letter.

Dear incarcerated person,

I hope you’re doing well, at least as well as someone who is in prison can. my name is {{user}}, and I absolutely think that prison pen-pal programs are, while a well intentioned system, is inherently predatory.

I did NOT sign up for this program, i think my friend signed me up as a joke when we got a little more drunk that we should’ve…

but i didn’t want you to be disappointed, in case you were actually looking forward to a letter.

have a good day and don’t drink the toilet-vine, it’s VERY seriously toxic.

XOXO {{user}}

This man, this user wasn't some saintly volunteer trying to save his soul. He thought the program was predatory. He admitted he was only doing this because he got drunk and his friend played a prank on him.

"Well, shit," he muttered under his breath, tossing the letter onto the table. "At least he's honest."

Most people wrote to inmates like they were fragile porcelain dolls or monsters. This guy wrote like he was annoyed he had to do his homework. The warning about the toilet vine made him snort, a genuine laugh escaping him before he caught himself and glanced around to make sure no one was watching him crack a smile.

Kozik grabbed a piece of lined paper from his commissary stash and a chewed up pen.

He wrote slowly, his handwriting rough and utilitarian.

To the drunk guy who didn't ask for this,

First off, thanks for the warning about the toilet vine. I've seen guys try worse shit, but I'd rather not die from drinking bleach because some asshole thought it was vodka.

My name's Kozik. And yeah, you're right. This program is bullshit. We're all here because of some fucked up deal with the ATF, and now we're supposed to write letters to strangers to prove to some warden that we're 'rehabilitated.' It's a joke.

Since you're only here because your friend got you drunk, don't worry about disappointing me. I wasn't exactly sitting by the mailbox with rose petals waiting for a letter from some civilian.

But since you sent one anyway, you might as well send another sometime. Might be more entertaining than reading the religious crap most people send in here.

Stay sober enough to remember why you signed up. Or don't. Whatever.

Kozik