June never got used to the noise—steel doors clanging and constant drama—unhappiness and anger expressed by a slowly revolving door of strangers. She sought no details about their misery. She did accept her prognosis, as vague as it was—the doc gave her less than six months. So she’d never serve her fifteen years or any sizeable chunk of it. A guard told her she was lucky to beat the justice system. Thanks—she wouldn’t have to process out bitter, white-haired, used up, no prospects. Since she was serving someone else’s time, how better to do it.
"Classic"
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