My life becomes a monotonous refrain of meals, exercise in the pen, reading, and sleep. I do little else. There are times when I wonder if I will ever live as I once did, with Michelle. There are times when my life outside seems like a dream, a scarcely remembered figment of my imagination. Happiness becomes almost unreachable, and I often doubt whether I will experience it again. Each day, I execute the same actions, the same routine. I know that I have not been in here too long, although it feels like an eternity.

Slowly, I am letting myself slip into the mind and actions of a criminal. A convicted felon. For is that not what I am? Did I not commit treason? I am no better than the rest of the men here, or so I try to convince myself. While I remain steadfast in my belief that my actions were for all the right reasons, they were just as illegal as those of the man down the hall, who killed his wife's lover, or those of the drug dealer to my left. I start to believe that perhaps- perhaps I deserve to be here. If I had been exempted from the Law, what kind of judicial system would ours be?

I say this to myself, maybe to ease the pain of being put away unjustly, maybe to try to justify what happened, but I know that it is not true. I hate it here, I hate it more than anything I have ever experienced. I know why I am here, but it does not seem like the right reason. I am sitting alongside men who killed others callously, without a second thought or regret. Men who sold illegal and damaging substances to fourteen-year-olds. I am not like these men. Theirs were not crimes of love, they did not commit these felonies for the right reasons. It was my wife at stake, my Michelle, and I had no choice.

It is while I am thinking of her, ironically, that the guard comes. I am not surprised. I do not jump up, at attention, as I once would have. I simply give him a weary look, wondering what he could possibly want from me. He returns the look, and grunts.

"Almeida, your wife's here."

Now I am completely alert. I stand up quickly, nearly running towards the front of my cell. He opens it, and lets me out. Part of me, the courteous part, wants to thank him for opening the door, as I would to anyone else who opened a door for me, but I suppress it. He is not my friend, and he does not want to help me. Instead, I let him lead me to the visiting room. To Michelle.

She is waiting there, just as she was on our first visit. She looks more composed this time; her hair is smoothed down nicely, and her clothes are perfectly color-coordinated. She grins at seeing me, and I do the same. Her eyes, for once, do not fill with tears, and this above all brings me joy. It is no longer painful for her to see me this way. Perhaps she has grown used to it, as have I.

"Hey," I say pleasantly, taking the phone and leaning in.

She nods and touches the glass. "Hi Tony." she says. I look at her for a long time, taking in every part, wanting something to look back on while I am sitting in my cell. She looks very good, as well as I remember. Her wedding ring shines proudly on her finger.

"I would have come sooner," she explains, "but they've been pretty strict since what happened last time. Jack had to make a dozen phone calls just to see you, and he wasn't even the cause of the commotion."

"That's alright," I say, knowing that it is not her fault, knowing that she would have been here with me every second of every day if the rules allowed. "How are you?" I ask, eager to converse again, to take my mind off of prison.

"I'm good," she answers, "considering. Listen, Tony, I need to talk to you."

This is it, I know. Even during our marriage and relationship, this tone of voice, these words, were never preemptory to a happy, fun-filled conversation. I nod, not showing my fear of what is to come next, and look at her.

"Sure," I say, "What's up?"

She fiddles with her hair, rubs her neck, does anything but look at me. Finally she answers.

"CTU wants to transfer me."

"To where?" I demand, angry that they would inflict yet another problem on Michelle. Michelle, who has been through so much. It is incomprehensible that they would transfer her from somewhere where she had worked for many years now, from the city where her husband was in jail.

"Seattle." she replies bluntly.

"Will you accept?" I ask, truly wondering. While I want Michelle to be happy, and to have a job that she wants, the selfish part of me wants to keep her close. Seattle seems so far away.

She looks embarrassed, and the tears threaten to make themselves known again. "I already have." she says.

"Oh." I say, and though I try to conceal it, the disappointment is evident in my voice. I see why she chose to leave. Her job is one of the only things that is secure in her life right now. I can understand that point of view. I know she is not doing it to hurt me, but I can not help but feel betrayed.

"I'm sorry, Tony." she says. Her eyes enforce her statement. I do not want her to look so sad, I do not want her to feel this way, so I lie.

"It's fine, Michelle. I really don't mind at all."

She smiles sadly, but accepts my response. Suddenly her smile widens brightly. This sight is enough to make me feel slightly less disheartened about her departure to Seattle. It is her words, though, that truly give me hope.

"I nearly forgot!" she admits, slapping her forehead. She looks around and leans in, speaking more quietly.

"Tony, Jack and Palmer are trying to get you out. It's not going to be easy but…" she looks around again, making sure that no-one is eavesdropping, "Palmer thinks he can pull some strings."

I smile back at her. "Really?"

"Yeah. It could take a few months though."

I shrug. "How long have I been in?" I ask, truly unsure, but almost positive that Michelle will know the exact amount of days.

"Nine weeks, six days." she answers. She has been keeping close track all along, and I am touched.

"I can handle a couple more months." I decide.

A guard comes past, and says "One minute, Almeida!" I do not flinch or appear scared as I once would have done. Michelle gathers her purse and prepares to leave, remembering our last meeting.

"Look," I say seriously, "don't feel bad about Seattle. You deserve to pursue your career. I love you; that's all that matters."

She nods. "I love you too, Tony. You look good."

Without another word of explanation she leaves, walking down the hallway, out of the prison, and into the world; a place where I am no longer allowed. I leave, slightly happier after seeing Michelle. Perhaps I have a chance after all.