The office had plants. Real ones, green and thriving, positioned near the window where sunlight actually reached them. Philip had forgotten that plants could thrive, that growth was possible without struggle, that some things were simply allowed to live.
"7749-B." Dr. Elena Voss smiled from behind her desk. She was forty, maybe forty-five, with the kind of face that had been beautiful and had chosen kind instead. "Please. Sit. This isn't an interrogation."
Philip sat. The chair was comfortable. Designed to make him comfortable. Everything in the office was designed— the diplomas on the wall (psychology, criminology, "Rehabilitation Sciences"), the soft lighting, the box of tissues positioned exactly within reach.
"How are you adjusting?" Dr. Voss asked.
"Fine."
"The food? The work? Your cellmate?"
"I don't have a cellmate. Single occupancy."
"Ah." She made a note. Philip couldn't see what. "That's unusual for new arrivals. But your file—" she touched a folder on her desk, "—suggests you might benefit from solitude. Reflection. Processing."
"My father was 7749."
Dr. Voss's pen stopped. She looked at him—really looked—and he saw something shift in her expression. Not recognition, exactly. More like the moment before recognition, when the mind is still assembling pieces.
"Tommy O'Brien," she said slowly. "Yes. I remember. I wasn't here then, but I read the files. When I saw your designation—the B—I requested the history. Standard procedure for lineage cases."
"Lineage cases."
"Families with multiple incarcerations. Sometimes genetic, sometimes environmental, sometimes—" she hesitated, "—systemic. Patterns that repeat. Cycles that need breaking." She leaned forward. "Your father died in an accident, 7749-B. A fall. I reviewed the investigation myself. No negligence found. No foul play. Sometimes tragedy is simply tragedy."
Philip said nothing. He thought of the paper in his stomach, his father's handwriting, the word Vance eaten and carried and hidden.
"You're here to help me," he said. Not a question.
"I'm here to facilitate your rehabilitation. To identify the factors that led to your criminal behavior—"
"I robbed a bank."
"—and to address them. To help you develop coping mechanisms, vocational skills, social connections that don't involve—"
"I wanted to get caught."
Dr. Voss stopped. Her expression didn't change—she was too well-trained for that—but something in her eyes did. A flicker. Doubt, maybe. Or the beginning of doubt.
"Why would you want that?"
"To come here. To Sunshine. To find out what happened to my father."
The silence stretched. Outside, a bird landed on the windowsill—a real bird, gray and ordinary, looking for food that wasn't there. Dr. Voss watched it. Philip watched her.
"You think he was murdered," she said finally.
"I think he found something. I think he tried to leave proof. I think someone with power decided he was inconvenient."
"And you? Are you inconvenient, 7749-B?"
Philip smiled. It felt strange on his face, like wearing someone else's expression. "I'm trying to be."
Dr. Voss stood. Walked to the window. The bird flew away, startled by her shadow.
"I believe in this program," she said, back to him. "I believe people can change. I believe the system—properly administered, properly funded, properly staffed—can reduce recidivism, can restore dignity, can—" She stopped. Her shoulders sagged. "But I've been here six years. And I've seen files. Files that don't match reality. Men who were 'reformed' and released, only to be arrested again within weeks—always for something they didn't do, always with evidence that appeared too conveniently. Women who reported abuse and found their sentences extended. Journalists who—" She turned. "Zara Chen. You spoke to her. She's not supposed to interact with new arrivals. She's—" Dr. Voss searched for words, "—influential. Persuasive. She has theories about this facility that aren't healthy for rehabilitation."
"She told me about drones," Philip said. "Third floor. Maintenance corridor."
Dr. Voss went pale. Actually pale, color draining from her face like water from a cracked cup. "She shouldn't know that. No one should know that. The security protocols—" She stopped herself. Sat down heavily. "You don't understand what you're involved in. You think you're investigating your father. You're not. You're walking into a machine that has been running for twenty years. A machine that doesn't notice individuals. That processes them. That—" She looked at her hands. "I'm part of it. I know I'm part of it. I tell myself I'm helping. That my presence mitigates harm. That if I weren't here, someone worse would be."
She looked up. Her eyes were wet.
"Your father wasn't murdered, 7749-B. He was processed. There's a difference. Murder is personal. Processing is—" She laughed, bitter and broken. "Efficient. Anonymous. Final."
Philip leaned forward. "Who processes the orders? Who signs the files?"
"I don't know. I see results, not causes. I see men enter and men leave and sometimes men die, and the reports always say 'accident' or 'natural causes' or 'suicide,' and I sign them because—" Her voice cracked. "Because if I don't, someone else will. And at least I remember their names. At least I know they existed."
She opened a drawer. Took out a photograph. Pushed it across the desk.
Philip's father. Younger than he remembered. Standing in a workshop, holding a radio, smiling at something off-camera. Behind him, a calendar: October 2009. Two weeks before his death.
"I found this last year," Dr. Voss said. "In a file that was supposed to be destroyed. I don't know why I kept it. I don't know why I'm showing you." She stood. Walked to the door. "Thursday. 3 PM. Maintenance corridor. If you're going to be inconvenient, 7749-B, be thorough. Be final. Don't end up like your father—remembered only by people too cowardly to act."
She opened the door. "Session's over. Return to your workshop detail."
Philip took the photograph. Slipped it into his sleeve, next to his heart. Walked out without looking back.
In the corridor, he breathed. In four, hold four, out four.
Dr. Voss was afraid. That made her dangerous. That made her useful.
That made her human.
Thursday. 3 PM.
Three days.