So I stand up and face the officer, daring her to look away from my smooth brown skin, the dark rings of my nipples, the swell of my belly, the thatch of hair between my legs. She hands me the orange scrubs that are designed to conform me, and the ID tag with my inmate number, meant to define me as part of a group, instead of an individual. I stare at her until she meets my eye. "My name," I say, "is Ruth."

- FIFTH GRADE, BREAKFAST. My nose was buried in a book, and I was reading facts aloud. "There were twins who were born eighty-seven days apart," I announced.

Rachel sat across from me, picking at her cornflakes. "Then they weren't twins, stupid."

"Mama," I yelled automatically. "Rachel called me stupid." I turned the page. "Sigurd the Mighty was killed by a dead man he beheaded. He tied the guy's head to his saddle and was scraped by a tooth and got an infection and died."

My mother hurried into the kitchen. "Rachel, don't call your sister stupid. And Ruth, stop reading vile things while everyone's trying to eat."

Reluctantly, I closed the book, but not before letting my eyes light on a final fact: there was a family in Kentucky that, for generations, had been born with blue skin. It was a result of inbreeding and genetics. Cool, I thought, holding out the flat of my hand and turning it over.

"Ruth!" my mother said sharply, which was enough to let me know it was not the first time she'd called my name. "Go change your shirt."

"Why?" I asked, before I remembered I wasn't supposed to talk back.

My mother yanked at my uniform blouse, which had a stain the size of a dime near my ribs. I scowled. "Mama, no one's even going to see it once I put my sweater on."

"And if you take that sweater off?" she asked. "You don't go to school with a stain on your shirt, because if you do, people aren't going to judge you for being sloppy. They're going to judge you for being Black."

I knew better than to cross Mama when she got like this. So I took the book and ran to the room I shared with Rachel to find a clean white shirt. As I buttoned it, my gaze drifted toward the trivia book where it had fallen open on my bed.

The loneliest creature on earth is a whale that has spent more than twenty years calling out for a mate, I read, but whose voice is so different from those of other whales that none of them ever respond.

- IN THE BEDROLL I am given are sheets, a blanket, shampoo, soap, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. I am entrusted to the custody of another inmate, who tells me important things: that from now on, all my personal hygiene items have to be purchased from the commissary, that if I want to watch Judge Judy in the rec room I have to get there early for a good seat; that halal meals are the only edible ones so I might want to say I'm Muslim; that someone named Wig gives the best tattoos, because her ink is mixed with urine, which means it's more permanent.

As we pass by the cells I notice that two inmates occupy each one, and that the majority of the prisoners are Black, and that the officers are not. There is a part of me that feels the way I used to when my mother made my sister take me out with her friends in our neighborhood. The girls would make fun of me for being an Oreo-black on the outside, white on the inside. I'd wind up getting very quiet out of fear that I was going to make a fool of myself. What if a woman like that is my roommate? What could we possibly have in common?

The fact that we're both in prison, for one.

I turn the corner, and the inmate sweeps her arm in a grand gesture. "Home sweet home," she announces, and I peek inside to find a white woman sitting on a bunk.

I put my bedroll on the empty mattress and begin to pull free the sheets and blanket.

"Did I say you could sleep there?" the woman asks.

I freeze. "I...uh, no."

"You know what happened to my last roommate?" She has frizzy red hair and eyes that do not quite look out in the same direction. I shake my head. She comes closer, until she is a breath away. "Neither does anyone else," she whispers. Then she bursts out laughing. "Sorry, I'm just messing with your head. My name's Wanda."

My heart is beating in the back of my throat. "Ruth," I manage. I gesture to the empty mattress. "So this is..."

"Yeah, whatever. I don't give a shit, as long as you stay out of my stuff."

I jerk my head, agreeing, and make the bed as Wanda watches. "You from around here?"

"East End."

"I'm from Bantam. You ever been there?" I shake my head. "No one's ever been to Bantam. This your first time?"

I glance up, confused. "In Bantam?"

"In prison."

"Yes, but I won't be here for long. I'm waiting for my bail to clear."

Wanda laughs. "Okay, then."

Slowly, I turn. "What?"

"I've been waiting for the same thing. Going on three weeks now."

Three weeks. I feel my knees buckle, and I sink to the mattress. Three weeks? I tell myself that my situation is not Wanda's. But all the same: three weeks.

"So what are you in for?" she asks.

"Nothing."

"It's amazing how nobody in here did anything illegal." Wanda lies back on her bunk, stretching her arms up over her head. "They say I killed my husband. I say he ran into my knife." She looks at me. "It was an accident. You know, like the way he broke my arm and gave me a black eye and pushed me down the stairs and those were accidents too."

There are stones in her voice. I wonder if, in time, mine will sound that way, too. I think of Kennedy, telling me to keep to myself.

I think of Turk Bauer and picture the tattoo I saw in the courtroom, blazing across his shaved scalp. I wonder if he has spent time in prison. If this means we, too, have something in common.

Then I picture his baby, curled in my arms in the morgue, cold and blue as granite.

"I don't believe in accidents," I say, and I leave it at that.

- THE COUNSELOR, OFFICER Ramirez, is a man with a face as round and soft as a donut, who is slurping his soup. He keeps spilling on his shirt, and I try not to look every time it happens. "Ruth Jefferson," he says, reading my file. "You had a question about visitation?"

"Yes," I reply. "My son, Edison. I need to get in touch with him, so that he knows how to get together the papers we need for bail. He's only seventeen."

Ramirez rummages in his desk. He takes out a magazine-Guns & Ammo-and a stack of flyers about depression, and then hands me a form. "Write down the name and address of the people you want on the visitor list."

"And then what?"

"Then I mail it out and when they sign it and send it back, the form gets approved and you're good to go."

"But that could take weeks."

"About ten days, usually," Ramirez says. Slurrrrp.

Tears flood into my eyes. This is like a nightmare, the kind where someone shakes your shoulder as you are telling yourself this is a dream, and says, This isn't a dream. "I can't leave him alone that long."

"I can contact child protective services-"

"No!" I blurt out. "Don't."

Something makes him put down his spoon and look at me, not unkindly. "There's always the warden. He can grant you a courtesy visit for two adult visitors before the official application is processed. But given that your son is seventeen, he'd have to come in the company of another adult."

Adisa, I think. And then, immediately, I remember why she'll never be approved by the warden for a visit: she has a record, thanks to a forged rent check five years back.

I push the form back across the desk to him. The walls feel like the shutter of a camera closing. "Thank you anyway," I manage, and I walk back to my cell.

Wanda is sitting on her bunk, nibbling on a Twix bar. She takes one look at me, then breaks off a tiny piece and offers it.

I take it in my hand and close my fist around it. The chocolate starts to melt.

"No phone call?" Wanda asks, and I shake my head. I sit on my bunk, and then turn away from her, so that I am facing the wall.

"It's time for Judge Judy," she says. "You want to watch?"

When I don't respond, I hear Wanda pad out of our cell, presumably toward the rec room. I lick the candy from my hand and then press my palms together and talk to the only slice of hope I have left. God, I pray, please, please be listening.

- WHEN I WAS little, I used to have sleepovers with Christina at her brownstone. We would unroll our sleeping bags in the living room and Sam Hallowell would run a movie projector with old cartoons that he must have gotten when he was a television executive. This was, back then, a big deal-there were no VCRs or video on demand; a private screening was a treat reserved for movie stars-and, I guess, their children. Although I was skittish about being away from home for the night, this was the next best thing: Mama would run the bath for us and get me into my pajamas and make a treat of hot cocoa and cookies before she left; and by the time we woke up, she was already back and making us pancakes.

Whatever differences there were between Christina and me grew more indelible as we got older. It was harder to pretend that it didn't matter my mama worked for hers; or that I had to work after school while she became a striker for the soccer team; or that the clothes I wore on Casual Fridays used to belong to Christina. It wasn't that she was unfriendly to me. The barricade was built with my own suspicions, one brick of embarrassment at a time. Christina's friends were all blond, pretty, athletic, fanning around her like the matching spokes of a snowflake; if I didn't hang around their edges, I told myself, it was because I didn't want Christina to feel like she had to include me. The real reason I distanced myself, though, was because it hurt less to step away than to risk that inevitable moment where I would become an afterthought.

The only problem with dissociating myself from Christina was that I didn't have many other friends. There was a Pakistani exchange student, and a girl with cataracts that I tutored in math, but what we had in common was the fact that we didn't really fit in anywhere else. There was a cluster of other Black kids, but their upbringing was still a world away from mine-with their parents who were stockbrokers and fencing lessons and summer cottages on Nantucket. There was Rachel-who was eighteen now and pregnant with her first child. She probably needed a friend, but even when we were face-to-face across the kitchen table, I couldn't think of a single thing to say to her, because the things she wanted out of her life were so different from what I hoped for in my own, and because-honestly-I was a little scared that if I started hanging around with her, all the stereotypes she'd wrapped herself in would rub off like shoe polish and make it even harder to fit in seamlessly in the halls of Dalton.

So maybe that's why, when Christina invited me to a slumber party she was having one Friday, I said yes before I could remember to stop myself. I said yes, and hoped that she would prove me gloriously wrong. In the company of all these new friends of hers, I wanted to share our inside jokes about the time Christina and I made helmets out of tinfoil and hid in the dumbwaiter pretending it was a spaceship to the moon; or when Ms. Mina's dog, Fergus, pooped on her bed and we used white paint to cover the stain, certain no one would ever notice. I wanted to be the only one who knew which kitchen cabinet held the snacks and where the extra bedding was kept and the names of each of Christina's old stuffed animals. I wanted everyone else to know that Christina and I had been friends even longer than they had.

Christina had invited two other sophomores-Misty, who claimed to be dyslexic to get accommodations on homework, but who seemed to have no trouble reading aloud from the stack of Cosmo magazines that Christina had brought onto the roof deck; and Kiera, who was obsessed with Rob Lowe and her own thigh gap. We had all stretched out towels out on the teak deck. Christina turned up the radio as a Dire Straits song came on and started singing all the lyrics by heart. I thought of how we used to play Ms. Mina's records-all original Broadway cast recordings-and dance around pretending to be Cinderella or Eva Pern or Maria von Trapp.

From my bag, I pulled out a bottle of sunscreen. The other girls had rubbed themselves with baby oil, as if they were steaks on a grill, but the last thing I wanted was to be darker. I noticed Kiera looking at me. "Can you tan?"

"Um, yeah," I said, but I was spared going into detail by Misty interrupting.

"This is so awesome," she said. "The British invasion." She twisted the magazine so that we could look at the models, each one twiggier than the last, draped in next season's clothes with Union Jacks and gold-buttoned red coats that made me think of Michael Jackson.

Christina sank down beside me, pointing. "Linda Evangelista is, like, perfect."

"Ugh, really? She looks like a Nazi. Cindy Crawford is so natural," Kiera countered. I peered at the photographs. "My sister's going to London this summer," Kiera added. "Backpacking through Europe. I made my dad promise, in writing, that when I was eighteen I could go too."

"Backpacking?" Misty shuddered. "Why?"

"Because it's romantic, duh. Just think about it. Eurail passes. Hostels. Meeting hot guys."

"I think the Savoy is pretty romantic too," Misty said. "And they have showers."

Kiera rolled her eyes. "Back me up, Ruth. No one in a romance novel ever meets in the lobby of the Savoy. They bump into each other on a train platform or accidentally pick up each other's backpacks, right?"

"Sounds like fate," I said, but what I was thinking was that there was no way I couldn't work for a summer, not if I planned to go to college.

Christina flopped onto her belly on the towel. "I'm starving. We need snacks." She looked up at me. "Ruth, could you go get us something to eat?"

Mama smiled when I came into the kitchen, which smelled like heaven. A rack of cookies was cooling, another sheet was just going into the oven. She held out the mixing spoon and let me lick the dough. "How are things up in Saint-Tropez?"

"Everyone's hungry," I told her. "Christina wants food."

"Oh, she does, does she? Then how come she isn't the one standing in my kitchen asking?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but couldn't find the answer. Why had she asked me? Why had I gone?

My mama's mouth drew tight. "Why are you here, baby?"

I looked down between my bare feet. "I told you-we're hungry."

"Ruth," she repeated. "Why are you here?"

This time I couldn't pretend to misunderstand. "Because," I said, so quietly that I could barely hear it, so quietly I was hoping my mother couldn't either, "I don't have anywhere else to go."

"That is not true," she insisted. "When you're ready for us, we'll be waiting on you."

I grabbed a plate and began to stack cookies on it. I didn't know what my mother meant and I didn't really want to know. I avoided her the rest of the afternoon, and when she left for the night, we were already locked inside Christina's bedroom, playing Depeche Mode and dancing on the mattress. I listened to the other girls confess their secret crushes and pretended I had one myself, so I could be part of the conversation. When Kiera brought out a flask filled with vodka ("It has the least calories, you know, if you want to get drunk"), I acted like it was no big deal, even though my heart was racing. I didn't drink, because Mama would have killed me, and because I knew I had to stay in control. Every night, before bedtime, I lotioned my skin and rubbed cocoa butter into my knees and heels and elbows to keep from being ashy; I brushed my hair around my head to encourage growth and wrapped it in a scarf. Mama did this, and so did Rachel, but I was pretty sure those rituals would be foreign to everyone at this sleepover, even Christina. I didn't want to answer questions, or stick out any more than I already did, so my plan was to be the last girl in the bathroom and to stay there until everyone had fallen asleep...and then to wake up before dawn and fix my hair before anyone else was stirring.

So I stayed awake as Misty recounted in painstaking detail what it was like to give a blow job and Kiera got sick in the bathroom. I let everyone brush their teeth before me, and waited long enough to hear snoring before I emerged in the pitch dark.

We were sleeping wedged like sardines, four of us in Christina's queen-size bed. I lifted the covers and slipped in beside Christina, smelling the familiar peach shampoo she had used forever. I thought she was asleep, but she rolled over and looked at me.

My scarf was wrapped around my head, red as a wound, the ends trailing down my back. I saw Christina's eyes flicker to it, and then back to mine. She did not mention the wrap. "I'm glad you're here," Christina whispered, and for a brief, blessed moment, so was I.

- LATE THAT NIGHT, as Wanda's snore whistles through the bunk, I lie awake. Every half hour a CO comes by with a flashlight, making sure that everyone is asleep. When he does, I close my eyes, pretending. I wonder if it gets easier to sleep with the sounds of a hundred women around you. I wonder if it gets easier, period.

During one of these circuits, the flashlight bounces with the CO's footsteps and then stops at our cell. Immediately Wanda sits, scowls. "Get up," the CO says.

"What the hell?" Wanda challenges. "Now you're tossing cells at midnight? You ever hear of prisoners' rights-"

"Not you." The officer jerks his head toward me. "Her."

At that, Wanda holds up her hands, backing off. She may have been willing to share a Twix with me, but now I am on my own.

My knees shake as I stand and walk to the open cell door. "Where are you taking me?"

The CO doesn't respond, just steers me down the catwalk. He stops at a doorway, buzzes the control desk, and there is a grating buzz as a lock is released. We step into an air lock and wait for the door to close behind us before the next door magically opens.

In silence he leads me to a small room that looks like a closet. He hands me a paper grocery bag.

I peek inside to see my nightgown and my slippers. I yank the scrubs off my body, starting to fold them out of habit, and then leave them in a pile on the floor. I pull on my old clothes, my old life.

The CO is waiting when I open the door again. This time he takes me past the cell where I was kept waiting when I first arrived, which has only two women in it now, both curled on the floor asleep, and reeking of alcohol and vomit. Then suddenly we are outside, crossing a fence with a necklace of barbed wire.

I turn to him, panicking. "I don't have any money," I say. I know we are an hour or so away from New Haven, and I don't have bus fare or a phone or even proper clothing.

The CO jerks his head into the distance, and that's when I notice that the dark is moving, a shadow against a moonless night. The silhouette morphs until I see the outline of a car, and a person inside, who gets out and starts running toward me. "Mama," Edison says, his face buried in my neck, "let's go home."

THERE ARE TWO TYPES OF people who become public defenders: those who believe they can save the world, and those who know damn well they can't. The former are starry-eyed law school grads convinced they can make a difference. The latter are those of us who have worked in the system and know the problems are so much bigger than we are or the clients we represent. Once a bleeding heart calluses into realism, victories become individual ones: being able to reunite a mom who's gone through rehab with her kid, who was put in foster care; winning a motion to suppress evidence of a former addiction that might color the odds for a current client; being able to juggle hundreds of cases and triage those that need more than a meet 'em and plead 'em. As it turns out, public defenders are less Superman and more Sisyphus, and there's no small number of lawyers who wind up crushed under the weight of the infinite caseloads and the crappy hours and the shitty pay. To this end, we learn quickly that if we're going to keep a tiny bit of our lives sacrosanct, we don't bring our work home with us.

Which is why, when I dream of Ruth Jefferson for two consecutive nights, I know I'm in trouble.