Page 148 of Unholy Obsession

Finally, I arrive at the prison.

It sits atop a hill, cold and imposing. I know the routine. I know what to expect. The sign-in process is smooth. It always is. I’ve done this for years.

Prison ministry is an ostentatious title for what I do. I don’t lead Bible studies. I just offer volunteer chaplain services. I talk to guys one-on-one who want to talk. I just listen. Offer counsel if it’s asked for.

These men are different from my usual congregation. They don’t have the luxury of pretense. They don’t get to hide behind status and wealth and reputations.

As much as I like to pretend I have any sort of control, I know it’s all a lie. There’s no rhyme or reason to the hand we’re dealt in life. Some are born into privilege. Some are born into suffering. Some fight their way out. Some never get the chance.

It makes me furious. Furious at the structures and systems that push some down and elevate others. Furious at the world, furious at my father, furious at myself.

But anger is useless unless it transforms into action. So I do what little I can. I show up. I sit down. I shut up and listen.

“I’d like to talk to a particular inmate, Silas Graham, if he’s up for a visit. Tell him that his son, Caleb, sent me.”

I sit in the waiting room for a while, staring at the walls and letting the sterile quiet fill the hollow spaces in my chest.

Finally, they call my name and nod me through the system of locked doors and hallways.

I take my seat across from the thick glass, waiting.

A man appears on the other side. Grizzled, salt and pepper at his temples, dark eyes that are weary but sharp.

He picks up the phone.

So do I.

“Caleb sent you?” Silas asks, voice gravelly.

I nod. “Yes. He’s been worried about you.”

Silas snorts, shifting in his chair. “Well, then he could drag his ass down here and check in on me face to face, couldn’t he?”

I tilt my head, meeting his steely gray eyes. “He feels guilty, and he’s young.”

Silas exhales heavily, running a hand through his thick, graying hair. “Yeah, I know. He’s just a kid, still.”

“I don’t know. Twenty-six is hardly a kid,” I say wryly, considering I’m only a year older.

Silas lets out a rough laugh. “The way that kid was raised... it was chaos. He didn’t have a father until his mom and I hooked up.”

I nod. “It’s difficult growing up without a parent you need.” I swallow down my own shit and try to focus on the man in front of me. “How areyou?”

His mouth presses into a hard line. “Been doing hard time, going on a dime—ten years. That’s a long time to be on the inside.”

“That means you went through COVID in here.”

He shakes his head, eyes darkening. “That was a shitshow. Place is understaffed as it is. Everyone all but went feral. Never seen so much death, and I was with the fucking Kings for a few years back in the day.”

Shit. If he’s talking about the Lone Star Kings, they’re a legendary ruthless MC—mostly underground these days. When you hang out in prisons, you learn the local landscape. La Eme, Bandidos, not to mention the warring cartels active in Texas.

I do a pretty good poker face even though I now realize that Caleb’s father is a man seriously not to be fucked with. “Howhave you handled things? Do they have a counselor in there for anyone to talk to?”

He barks out a laugh. “Mental health? What’s that?”

I nod, understanding. “I know short-staffed is an understatement for most prisons.” Seventy-five percent staffed is a good day for most facilities in Texas. Some are as bad as fifty-five percent.

Silas straightens, muscles stretching the fabric of his faded orange jumpsuit. The man is built like a fucking tank. “I keep things in line on my block.”

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