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Joel POV 

“Johnson, you got mail.” I hear the CO (correction officer) say as he shoves an envelope through my cell bars. The envelope hits the concrete floor face up and I turn my head on my pillow enough to notice what appears to be female hand writing on a standard white envelope.  “I’m surprised anyone gives a shit about the likes of you.”  He’s such a dick. Why can't he just keep his fucking mouth shut.  If I was anywhere else, I’d shut it for him.  I glance back at the letter.  Who the fuck would be writing me? 

My cellie grabs it off the floor before I can get to it.  “From Miranda Harris. Joel, you have a woman or what?” I wish.  But, I’ve never even heard of this person. 

“Shut-up, Shotgun.” Yeah, we call my cellie, Shotgun.  Apparently, he got the nickname because he shot his father and two of his uncles, all in the head with a shotgun when he was nineteen, but no one really knows for sure why he did it. We get along pretty good since we both got sentenced young and have basically grown up in the system, except he’s kinda nosy.  Strange, he wants to be up in everyone’s business when he won't even share one single detail about his own life or what got him in here.  I feel lucky I never really got a prison nickname.  That’s one thing I can be happy about. 

I snatch the letter out his hands and crash back into the bottom bunk. I open it, thinking the whole time, who the fuck is Miranda Harris and what does she want from me? 

Dear Joel, 

I came across your cousin’s post online that you were wanting a penpal and since I’m also twenty-eight years old, know your cousin, and like to write letters, I thought I would send one along in case you really were wanting to write to someone.  I met your cousin in an art class and I also saw some of your paintings on her post.  You are very talented.  I imagine you would love the view of the mountains and even the wildlife that I have here in Alaska.  Have you been here? To visit your cousin? 

I live in Wasilla which is about an hour drive north of Anchorage. It’s mother effing cold right now haha and even worse, it's winter so we get barely any sunlight with daylight coming around ten fifteen am and darkness coming around three forty-five pm…short days for sure…

I have a decent, but boring job working in an office.  Mostly, I research Alaska Native languages/dialects and prepare what will someday become dictionaries for traditional language teaching. 

I am learning to draw but I’m not very good yet. That is why I am taking the art class.  My grandma taught art and my brother is an amazing artist as well (acrylics mostly).  It’s not going well, and I think all the artist genes skipped me, unfortunately.  

I admit, I did look you up online and read just enough of your story to be sure I felt comfortable writing to you. I didn't delve too deep because that’s your story to share if you choose to do so. I didn’t tell your cousin I was writing to you, but I’m fine with you telling her if you want 

Anyways, have a good one, 

Miranda

Well, that is not exactly what I was expecting.  Someone actually wants to talk to me? To be my penpal?  I can't help but wonder what is wrong with this chick, writing to an inmate. She’s probably butt ugly or has no arms. Well, I know she has at least one arm, the letter is handwritten. Over the last nine years, I have had a couple other people write to me, but they were mostly people from churches and they were more interested in talking about their religion than actually getting to know me or letting me get to know them. 

“What's it say?” Shotgun asks, breaking my racing thoughts. 

“Man, she knows my cousin and introduced herself. It’s nothing. Go find yourself some business,” I replied. 

“You get no love now, brother. Write the bitch back and maybe get some scratch on your books while you're at it. Fill up that box,” Shotgun insisted. 

“Hey! First, don't call the only female who has talked to me in years a bitch and second, you know I don't need anything enough to use people for it. That's for the druggies. Those clowns give the rest of us a bad rep.  If I do write back, it will be to pass the time and get to know someone. Plus, I dont want to fuck over anyone who is my cousins friend and the last thing I need is some crazy bitch stalker when I get out. No cling-ons allowed.” 

“You're right,” he says, “Bad habits picked up in here and all that shit. How about we go get in our workout” 

Yeah, our workout.  We have been locked down for over a week now for the quarterly shakedown.  The correction officers (or CO’s as we call them) had already been on our cell, going through our measly belongings looking for contraband, but they still had other places to shakedown so it would be another week or so until we could go back to our normal schedule.  This meant that there was no outside recreation time and no weight pile. We are basically stuck in the cells all day with no phone calls, no computer use, and minimal meals and shower outings. For meals, they manage to scrape even lower than the bottom of the barrel on lockdowns. They consistently feed us, for breakfast, boiled eggs that don't peel right, grits...that are usually extra watery and normally all over the eggs and potatoes that are cubed and cold. Lunch and supper are usually boiled hot dogs or bologna with mustard spread all over everything. It is so damned frustrating to try and eat when the quality of food is so poor, so Shotgun and I always try to have extra commissary foods in our box like ramen noodles, tuna fish, and chocolate protein shakes. 

Anyways, to work off excess energy and to prevent being sore when we regain access to the free weights, my cellie and I do a series of callanetics everyday and even made a weight bag out of books and magazines for biceps and tricep curls, and to add some resistance to other exercise routines.

Still thinking about the letter I received, I tried to focus on my workout. Shotgun had the music playing on the television, which is a completely plastic thirteen inch clear flat screen that costs over two hundred dollars.  My own mother said my television cost more than the big screen she got Black Friday shopping last year. He turned the front speaker to face us and we faced each other at opposite ends of the cell. “Time for burpees,” I told him and he groaned. We jumped up in unison, squatted down, did a push up, then ended by standing back up. “One,” he said. Only one hundred and ninety nine to go.  We continued with our workout and an hour later, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, we stopped. 

Shotgun sat in the chair and I turned the music down.  I sat in my box, which is a three by two foot storage locker that was only about a foot deep. I kept all my commissary and my property, like books, in it. Technically we are supposed to store all of our stuff including our issued and purchased clothes but they usually don't push the issue unless you get a CO on a power trip, which sometimes happens. drinking water and breathing deeply. I looked up at Shotgun who gave me a questioning look. “ I think I am going to write to her tomorrow. I just don't know what I am going to say.” 

“Be yourself,” he said, “She already knows why you're here and still she wrote. Its all good man. Plus, she may have some pretty tits.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” said laughing, “Get the fuck out the way so I can take a bird bath.”