Face pressed into the bars, Tony checked the catwalks, making certain no guards patrolled nearby. They were too far to be seen, their footsteps lost in the colossal din of echoing curses. He turned; resting his back against the bars, pulling his head as far back as it would go. 'Rogriguez,' he called, hoping to attract the gang leader's attention. Once again he cursed the bars as they prevented him from moving back the extra couple of inches he would have required to peer up a level and along two cells to see Rodriguez. Not surprisingly Rodriguez failed to hear him in the racket. 'Rodriguez,' he called louder, receiving no answer.

'Dammit Almeida, you've been in prison long enough to have learned no one can hear you like that! You're just getting on my nerves,' snapped Martins, his irritable neighbor. 'Why don't you shoot him a kite?'

Tony turned to face Martins, glad of an idea though seeking clarification. 'What's that?' he asked. An image of a kite came to him, flying over a field, which he dismissed immediately as useless. This 'kite' had to be entirely different.

Martins groaned aloud. 'What do you imagine it is? Not a bloody colorful dragon! It's got a string though, you write your message and tie it on and throw it. Now give me some peace for Chrissake!'

'I haven't got any string,' Tony said, aware Martins would curse him and lend him some if he persisted long enough. 'Could I borrow a piece? I'd give it back.'

Martins groaned aloud. 'Anyone would think a man sentenced to prison has the right to a little peace and quiet to contemplate his past deeds! Alright, Almeida, I'll lend you a piece of string, but I'll expect it back shortly – all of it.' A small ball of string was pushed into his cell. 'Tell me you got a pen?' the robber asked.

Tony rubbed his face, having wandered when he should broach the subject of lacking a pen. 'No, I haven't. They haven't allowed me any shopping privileges yet.'

'It's hardly surprising, with your attitude,' Martins told him, pushing a blue biro through the bars. 'Now I don't want to hear anymore from you till you're returning my property, ok?'

'Sure,' Tony agreed. 'Thanks, Martins.'

He settled at his table, using a scrap of paper he removed from an old notebook Martins had given him. Frowning in concentration he wrote a simple question about the possibility of getting another pair of shoes and struggled with attaching the paper to the string. Whichever way he tried it kept falling off – he ended up piercing the note and attaching the string to it. He walked back to the bars at the front, searching the catwalks, noticing two guards patrolling nearby. Sighing in frustration he returned to his bed, waiting till they walked past before heading back to the bars.

This would be so much easier if I had the second floor and just had to throw this thing down. Better throw it to the right cell, Almeida.

Wrapping an end round his wrist he pushed his hand through the bars and threw the other end up and across, watching it fly directly towards Rodriguez's cell. It landed on the catwalk directly outside the bars. Tony swallowed, calling his name as loudly as he could, breathing easier once he saw a hand reach out and retrieve the note. He waited patiently for his reply, gazing about the block. Sanchez appeared to be sleeping, lying immobile on his bed, face turned towards the wall. A burning note fell into the middle of the floor, consuming the paper rapidly and smoking.

'Who the hell is responsible for that?' yelled a guard, gazing up at the second tier. 'I see one more of this, there's no yard time tomorrow for the entire row!'

God I'm SO sick of hearing about the loss of yard time!

A note sailed expertly between his bars, landing near his feet. Tony picked it up eagerly, reading Rodriguez's answer. Apparently there was little chance of getting new shoes unless Davis himself authorized it, and he doubted whether Tony would even want to try asking. He was right, Tony thought, he had no intention of ever speaking to Davis again. There was a further line scribbled near the bottom of the paper, so tiny as to be virtually illegible. Tony strained his eyes to make out a few words in Spanish, something about getting shoes from the same place as another necessary item.

Of course! I'll take them from the guard with the most similar size. I'm not sure how suitable they'll be for covering rough terrain, but I can always 'find' another pair outside!

He wrote 'Gracias' on the final scrap of paper from the same book and tied it to the string, aiming carefully. It sailed upwards, blown off course by a sudden gust of wind as the main door was opened. Tony watched in dismay as it tangled in the catwalk, attempting to pull the string backwards. 'Oh shit,' he breathed, pulling a little harder.

Martins appeared to hear him, moving to the front of the cell. 'What simple task did you manage to complicate unnecessarily this time, Almeida?' he questioned, biting his lip when he saw the note stuck in the middle of the second row catwalk. 'How the devil could you manage that?' he gasped, reaching out to tug at the string. It remained intertwined in the thin gaps in the metal. Martins swore and handed Tony a small pair of blunt nail cutting scissors. 'Cut it loose, Almeida, or you'll get lugged.'

Tony reached out as far as he could, cutting the string and praying that Rodriguez could reach out for the note. He had no desire to find out what 'getting lugged' consisted of, he had a pretty good idea already. A few inches of string dangled off the catwalk, noticeable from a mile away! He watched with bated breath as Rodriguez reached for the note and found he needed a good inch to retrieve it. 'Maldito sea!' Well, he was about to find out the precise definition of the verb 'to lug' he thought grimly, noticing two guards approaching.

'What the hell's that?' one asked, pulling the string. 'It's a note. Shit, some convicts are daft!' Tony's cheeks burned as he listened, forced to agree. 'Pull it down, let's read it.'

He watched as they read the single word. 'It says "gracias". Some Spic wrote that. Rodriguez!'

'It's mine,' Tony said suddenly, knowing Rodriguez had served several months in a place known as the SHU and hated being pulled up for anything since.

The guards moved to his cell, gazing at him in annoyance. 'What the hell do you mean by hanging notes from the ceiling? Do you think it's a joke?' one demanded. 'Stand your gate, convict, when you are spoken to!'

Tony moved to the front of the cell placing his hands behind his back. 'It's no joke sir, it's a decoration,' he said seriously. 'A white butterfly. The place looked a little bleak, all grey.' A ripple of laughter could be heard from the surrounding cells. 'It just flew in and got stuck,' Tony continued without batting an eyelid, 'but you freed it, that's why it said "gracias".' The sniggering intensified, a couple of prisoners banged on their bars. The guards gazed at him less than amused, one of them crumbling the paper in his hand. 'Now you killed the poor thing,' Tony concluded, shaking his head.

'Convict Almeida, I'm filling out a Rules Violation Report on you. You'll hear what disciplinary action Mr. Davis will take by this evening,' one of them told him.

Tony chewed his lip, hoping Davis wouldn't come to his cell personally. 'Yes sir,' he said.

Well, you're real familiar with their Rules Violation Report – form 115. You got one filled out two days ago for throwing the ball and lost yard time for a week. Wander what they'll think of next?

'Fed,' called Rodriguez, and Tony craned his neck to see his outline against the bars. 'Gracias. Not many would own up to something.'

'It was mine,' he said simply, and returned to his corner. Carefully he tore Rodriguez's note into tiny pieces, flushing it down the toilet. Making certain there were no guards present he handed Martins the remainder of the ball of string together with his pen and scissors. 'Sorry, Martins,' he apologized.

Martins shook his head, taking his things quickly. 'You're lucky they didn't lug you, Almeida. They still might, you know.'

'Yeah,' he sighed, taking his pile of letters and settling in the corner. He glanced through them, having read each of them so many times he knew them word for word. After a little thought he picked his brother Bobby's latest letter.

Dear Tony.

How are you? I'm fine; we're in the Gulf right now. You should see the water; it's this dark blue on sunny days, which is always. Mom says I shouldn't write about the water or the beach to you as it would upset you, but I know you like to hear about it. We had quite a storm yesterday, there was white water in every direction and we done a 40 degree roll! You would've loved it.

We're being deployed home in two months. I'll come and visit you as soon as I get back. Tony - hang in there. I've got SO much to tell you.

Bobby

'I miss you too, Bob,' he said softly to himself. He read the letter again, pausing to picture every sentence about the storm. The rest of his family skirted an entire range of topics including the weather, their outings, their parties (if they actually had any) and their holiday plans. Tony rested his head against the wall, wandering how long it would have taken them before they would have written about their real lives. He had already been in prison for five months. He pressed the entire pile of letters close to him, missing them. One visitor a month for an hour if he behaved well all month was unpalatable.

The afternoon dragged on. Tony tried hard to read his latest book, but found himself unable to concentrate. Something was wrong, he could sense it. Instincts heightened he paced his cell back and forth unable to find anything out of the ordinary. The usual cursing echoed through the block, the usual notes flew between cells; the usual clanging filled the air, punctuated by the frequent threats of the patrolling guards. It was an afternoon like every other afternoon in B block, yet something was wrong somewhere – somewhere outside the prison if not inside. Tony longed to pick up a phone and call his parents to make certain they were ok.

I'd issue a warning to take cover now, were we on patrol in the army.

He threw himself down on his bed, rising seconds later to resume his pacing.

God I need to get out of here!

A note flew into his cell from Rodriguez, telling him to settle down and read something. Tony sighed, crumpling it in his hand. He really didn't want to read now; he wanted to go outside for a walk in the yard. Well no, he really wanted to go for a walk on the beach, of course, but he still had another few days of waiting and exercising before he would be strong enough to leave. He struggled through another hundred push-ups, pleased to note he needed less rest between them and that the ache from his beating had nearly faded. He would attempt his escape in another three or four days.

Two guards climbed down from their office and headed directly across the floor to Tony's cell just before dinner. He watched them coming, carrying the CDC Form 115 with them, recognizing it from across the block. Apprehensively he wandered what punishment Davis had written on it. At least only two guards came, which meant he would be left in his cell.

'Convict, stand your gate,' snapped an aggressive guard before he had a chance to move. He placed his arms behind his back and awaited his sentence. 'For a violation of prison discipline you are placed on reduced rations for the following three days. Is that understood, convict?'

'Yes sir,' Tony said. Damn damn damn! I really needed all the food I could get now.

He remained at the bars watching them carry the form upstairs back to the supervisor's office. Yet again he wandered at the point of bringing the form down to be read aloud when there was absolutely nothing a prisoner could do about it anyway. Surely it would be simpler to just notify the prisoner of his punishment. He concluded the sight of the form made things appear less arbitrary.

His dinner consisted of half a plate of mashed potatoes with a single sausage. He ate it as slowly as possible, placing miniscule portions in his mouth in an attempt to make it last longer and to fool his stomach into believing he had eaten a normal sized meal. Hungrily he lay down at lights out and closed his eyes, delighted to enter his self permitted period of daydreaming.

He pictured himself attaching his boat to his SUV and pulling it down to the marina, lowering it into the ocean and then parking his car. He jumped into his boat and pulled the cord, listening to the cough the engine always made to begin with, threatening to die before it gave a loud splutter and roared into life. He was heading out to sea today as the wind was calm and there were few waves. He fell asleep dreaming of his boat flying over the waves, feeling hot sun and cold spray on his skin. He awoke hours before the siren, not having tired himself out the previous day confined to his cell and continued his daydreaming where he had left off when he fell asleep, absorbing himself so deeply he remained unaware of the grim reality of his surroundings.

The siren's wail penetrated his dreams. Using all his self-discipline he climbed out of bed and dressed, refusing to allow himself any further images of his boat. Once he slipped he would go mad – and that was not going to happen! Tony combed his hair and washed his face, thinking about the day ahead. What day was it? A Thursday – well, that meant no shower or cleaning the cell. Did he have anything at all planned for the day? He searched his brain, desperate to find something, having initiated a system for himself the previous month where he set aside a task to be achieved for each consecutive day. Yes, of course there was something, today he would do 150 push-ups without pausing before breakfast and again in the afternoon. He washed his face and began his exercises, knowing he would be permitted yard time the following day. He would say farewell to the gang that had helped him. Tomorrow would be an important day.

He received half a bowl of lukewarm porridge without toast for breakfast which he forced himself to swallow slowly. After the bowl was removed he watched the guard with the bag of letters throw a few through the slots, delighted to receive one himself. Eagerly he carried it over to his familiar corner and pulled the letter out of the already opened envelope, smiling at the handwriting.

Dear Uncle Tony

We went on a field trip to Death Valley with the class, and mommy volunteered to come as one of the helping parents. She managed to get Grandpa to come along too; she said he really needed to get out of the house for a bit coz he's real sad about you still. He helped set up some tents and stuff. Do you remember you came to help out with the camping trip last year? I sure wish you could come again…

I drew you a picture of our new puppy. We got him last month.

Grandma says she'll bring me with her when she's allowed to visit you again so I can tell you all about the trip. Please be good so we can come soon. Uncle Tony, will you write me a letter, addressed to me? No one has before! I miss you so much, I wish you'd just come and take me to the beach or something.

Sandy

'I wish I could too, princess,' he said softly, removing a drawing of a black dog. He smiled, remembering he had an entire drawer filled with her artwork at home, at least he had had, he corrected himself. He had no home anymore, and he had no idea what happened to the furniture. Hopefully Michelle gave the pictures back to her. He had kept them all, from her earliest scribbles to all the pictures she had drawn while they waited to see her mother in hospital. Slowly he reread her letter, placing it on the table.

'Martins, are you there,' he asked, putting his face close to the bars, biting his tongue for asking such a foolish question. A loud smirk was his only answer. 'I'm sorry, I mean, do you have a moment?' he pressed.

'What do you want to talk me into lending you this time, Almeida?' Martins asked a trifle less irritably. 'Could it possibly be a pen and a piece of paper?'

'Yeah,' said Tony, holding out his hand. 'I'll repay you with paper, as soon as I'm allowed to buy some, you know that.'

'You'd better; you owe me an entire file full by now. Alright, here's two sheets and my biro. And there's your envelope.'

'Thanks Martins, I'll repay it all,' he promised, doubting whether he would be able to keep that one. If his escape succeeded he'd never see this dismal place again, and if it didn't, well, he wouldn't be returned to B block, that was certain.