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Her first instinct is to scoff and remind Lincoln of their end game. What would it benefit them for her to have access to Sona? The goal is to get Michael out, and she would hardly be inconspicuous as an American woman inside that all-male hellhole. But she knows that the man perched on her bed is just as aware - if not more so - of these facts as she is. There must be more, and so Sara forces herself up onto her elbows, leaning forward as she waits to him to go on.
"There's a boss inside," Lincoln explains. "A con, like the rest of 'em, but this one runs the whole place. Everything and everyone."
Their gazes lock, and she can see reluctance now. Whatever this is, whatever he knows, there is something he doesn't want to tell her. Her hand is still on his arm, and she shifts it down, covering his palm with hers. That there is anything that would give him pause in this moment terrifies her. Their joint purpose is freeing Michael, and surely Lincoln knows she would do anything - anything - to bring about that end. And still he hesitates.
She chokes down the swell of fear that his silence and her thoughts are creating and refocuses. Michael. Michael. Michael. The blur in her vision fades, and when Lincoln's face swims back into focus, she concentrates on schooling her features, on showing him she is ready to hear.
He is watching her intently when he begins to tell her about Lechero, and his voice does not falter when he tells her that if she is willing, she will disguise herself - as a nun, Sara hears but does not fully process - and replace the prostitute who visits him every few days. This will get her in. They cannot arrange for her to see Michael, and she is not to mention him to Lechero. For now, all she can do is glean whatever information she can. She will have half an hour. No time at all, when she considers that Michael will be within the same walls; an eternity, when she realizes what she will have to allow to pull this off.
Sara is abruptly cold-cocked by reality, and the blow sends her reeling. Her elbows collapse, sending her backward, and her head slams into the wooden headboard. The blow registers less than Lincoln's words have.
"Sara," she hears Lincoln say, and for a moment, all she can think of is asking him to stop using her name. Those syllables should belong to Michael alone, should only be spoken in his soft, earnest tones. She shakes her head, exasperated with her own sentimental foolishness, and winces as she does so. She has to force herself to stay in this moment, keep having this conversation. There is not time, not now, to think about what her participation in this plan involves. Whatever she can do to help Michael, she will do.
Lincoln is silently staring, his eyes fixed on her as if she's a riddle he's trying to solve.
"He wouldn't want you to do this," he says flatly. "Hell, he wouldn't even want me to tell you about it." He is challenging her, Sara knows, waiting for her to latch onto the first flimsy excuse he presents. He expects her to refuse, and that realization hurts more than she would have thought.
She also knows he's right. Michael would stiffen, level that steely, unflinching gaze on his brother and say no. But he's not here to do so - which is the point, isn't it? - and she merely arches an eyebrow and agrees.
"He wouldn't want this, Lincoln. But I don't really think that's relevant, do you? You told me. And I'm doing it."
Relief and gratitude are the first emotions she identifies on his face. She ignores the flicker of surprise that follows, reminding herself that it's Michael who knows her, not Lincoln.
Forty-eight hours later, she's staring in disbelief at her reflection. She can hear Lincoln pacing outside the bathroom; it's time.
Grimacing, she opens the door and steps out. He looks up immediately, and the straightfaced composure Sara admired in Fox River is nowhere to be found on his face. Inscrutable Linc is an open book at the moment, one her pride wishes she couldn't read.
"Sara," he chokes out, "you look ..."
She smiles in spite of herself, her hands trying to smooth the wimple of the nun's habit she's wearing.
"Don't worry," she quips, grateful for any sort of emotional reprieve before she enters a prison where she has no employee badge to ensure safe passage. "I won't be asking you to confess."
They share a grin, and her heart lightens as she takes a seat on the bed, shifting uncomfortably. The heavy fabric is rough against her skin, and it only serves to encourage her already churning stomach.
As abruptly as the slamming of a door - is it ironic, she wonders, that every time a door slams, her mind substitutes the door to a prison cell? That every door has Michael behind it, and every time she watches one swing shut, she feels another bit of hope drain away? - the moment passes. This is serious business.
She is to go alone, by taxi, and while she'd rather have Lincoln with her, she understands. After all, nuns don't travel with bodyguards, at least not in the world Sara knows.
But she's already shed that skin - things that are familiar, those that are comfortable, they're part of another life. One in which she would never trade her body for information or ... well. Maybe this life isn't as far removed as she likes to think.
Lincoln grips her elbow as she puts her hand on the doorknob, and she turns back, expecting some last-minute advice, perhaps some tips on seduction to go along with her lacy lingerie. She can't blame him for thinking her unequal to the job, and when she notices the hard line of his mouth, she wants to reassure him. His hand moves to her shoulder, though, and he only has two words for her.
"Thank you," he says with feeling, and all she can do is stare. Finally, she manages a nod and a brief smile, and then she is out the door.
The heat is both uncomfortable and reassuring as she slides into the waiting taxi. She needs some sort of anchor to remind her that this is real, and the moisture on her brow is proof enough. The driver greets her with respect, and they drive the short distance in silence before the car stops in front of a guard station.
She will check in here, scribbling down the alias that has been arranged, and the doors will open to her. Once again, she will willingly place herself among murderers, rapists, and thieves, but hope easily overwhelms her nerves. She has a purpose. There may be men guilty of unspeakable evil inside these walls, but there is also Michael. And so she gives the guard a demure smile as she bends to sign her name to the visitor list. He eyes her closely for a moment that seems to last hours, and then glances down at what she's written.
"¿Por Lechero?" he asks.
Sara takes a deep breath and forces another smile. "Sí."