Page 3 of Mason

Scar-Chin surges forward, but before he can land another blow, a shadow looms behind him.

Then everything stops. Just as quickly as the fight erupted, everything seems to pause, as though in slow motion.

A massive arm hooks around Scar-Chin’s throat and yanks him back like a rag doll. The others freeze. A deep, gravelly voice cuts through the chaos.

“Enough.”

A man, bigger even than me, holds Scar-Chin under his arm, but his eyes are glued to mine. The man is massive, with triceps that I’m sure could squeeze the life out of the man he’s holding without much effort.

Scar-Chin gags as the man tightens his hold. “Let me make something real clear,” the giant says, his voice calm, almost bored. “This one? He’s off-limits.”

Scar-Chin wheezes. His boys shift, looking at each other like maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

The man lets him go, shoving him forward until he stumbles. “Go.”

They scatter, leaving me standing there, blood dripping from my arm. The mess hall is still loud, but the energy has shifted. Nobody will touch me now. Not unless they want to deal with the big man.

He gives me a long look, like he’s sizing me up. Then he turns, walks back to his table, and takes his seat like nothing happened. Just another day in the mess hall.

I exhale. Pick up what’s left of my tray and head to an open table, where I plop it down and push it aside. No way am I eating the slush; I guess the bread will have to do.

A minute later, someone slides onto the bench across from me. A skinny kid, jittery, barely into adulthood. His hands twitch as he picks up a piece of bread and tears at it like a rat nibbling on scraps.

I watch him. He fidgets. His eyes dart around, never landing on me for too long.

“Clay,” he says finally, not meeting my gaze. There’s a nervous tension about him.

I take a bite of my bread, chewing slowly. “Mason.”

Clay nods like he already knew that. His leg bounces under the table. “Saw what happened. That was… uh, intense.”

“Yeah.” I eye the kid suspiciously, wondering what he wants. Truth be told, he doesn’t look like he belongs in here.

A pause.

“I didn’t do it,” he blurts out suddenly.

I arch a brow. “Didn’t do what?”

Clay’s throat bobs. “Whatever they say I did.”

I smirk. “Yeah?”You and everyone else in here, buddy. We’re a bunch of innocent degenerates in here.I don’t tell him what I’m really thinking. “I didn’t do it, either.”

His face twists like he knows I’m being a moron and he wants to argue, but he just mutters, somewhat defeated, “I really didn’t.”

I don’t press. It’s not my business. This is prison, and everyone’s got their secrets. I’m just here for the short term, to do my job and leave.

I finish my bread in silence, Clay picking at his food across from me. The mess hall hums around us, but nobody else comes near. The big man made sure of that.

“How long you been in here?” I ask him.

“Four days,” he says, though his voice breaks as he delivers the words. Like he can’t even believe it himself.

“And what are you in here for?”

“Murder.”

Clay leans in,his voice low, eyes darting around as if someone might be listening in. “I didn’t do it.”

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