Chapter 1 Psychological Counseling for Prisoners

"Hurry up, Sarah. Only thirty seconds left." Claire Ward stood behind her cousin, hands pressing restlessly on her shoulders.

Sarah's heart pounded. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. She moved the mouse with trembling fingers and slammed the red confirmation button.

The page refreshed. [Application submitted. Thank you for your participation.]

Claire screamed, threw her arms around Sarah from behind, and nearly choked her. "We did it! We made the deadline."

Sarah didn't smile. Exhaustion washed through her, and a heavy weight settled on her shoulders.

Two days ago, while handing out flyers in town, they'd spotted a ragged recruitment notice tacked to a utility pole.

[Ironmoor Penitentiary seeks 50 female volunteers to provide psychological counseling to inmates and guide them toward rehabilitation. Three-month program. Upon completion, each volunteer will receive $50,000 compensation.]

Fifty thousand each. Together, she and Claire would get a hundred thousand.

The first time Sarah read the notice, she thought it was insane.

Young girls with no self-defense training, walking into a prison to counsel violent criminals? It was a death wish. The notice didn't even name the facility. Everything beyond "psychological counseling" was vague.

That night, back in the place they could barely call home, Sarah looked at the acceptance letter from Silverpeak College's psychology program tucked in an old shoebox under her bed. She made her choice.

Her parents had died in a car accident. The settlement was supposed to pay for her tuition and living expenses. But Sarah had been a minor, so the money went to her uncle, Percy Ward.

Percy drank it all. Gambled. When he lost, he took it out on Sarah and his own daughter, Claire.

Sarah couldn't afford college.

If she let this chance slip, she'd end up like so many desperate women in this small town—stuck, married to some alcoholic truck driver, miserable for the rest of her life.

When the two walked out of the internet cafe, the sky was pitch black. Old streetlights flickered, casting two twisted, long shadows on the ground.

"Claire," Sarah said, pulling her faded jacket tight. Cold wind slipped down her collar, and she shivered. "I still don't feel good about this. The deadline was so close, we probably won't even get picked. And if we do, we'll be facing murderers, drug dealers, gang members. We could get killed. The notice is so vague—we have no idea what we'll actually have to do."

"Hey, look at me." Claire stopped and turned, putting her hands on Sarah's shoulders.

Her bright eyes held a stubborn, almost obsessive optimism. "Our life right now is as bad as it gets. Staying in that bastard's house, getting yelled at and beaten every day—that's not any safer than walking into a prison."

She pursed her lips and tried to lighten the mood. "Don't be so nervous. Not everyone in prison is a dangerous criminal. Maybe there are good people in there, people who stood up for justice and got locked up by mistake."

Sarah knew Claire was trying to comfort her, but she couldn't smile. The unease wouldn't leave her chest.

They talked on and off, and soon the run-down single-story house came into view. They stopped at the door at the same time.

Everything was silent. Yellow light seeped through the crack in the door, mixed with the muffled sound of a TV.

Every time Sarah stood in front of this door, she felt the same crushing panic. This place had never been home. It was a cage.

She took a deep breath, told herself to hold on a little longer.

She pushed the door open a crack. Before she could step inside, a glass bottle flew at her face and smashed against the doorframe beside her.

Shards of glass stung her cheek. Cheap beer splashed over her, sour and reeking.

"Ah!" Claire cried out and stumbled back.

Sarah froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Through the gap in the door, she saw Percy sprawled on the stained living room sofa, still gripping another empty bottle.

The stench of alcohol rolled off him. His bloodshot eyes glared at them.

"Out in the middle of the night," he said, his voice hoarse and venomous. "Where have you been? Two shameless girls, sneaking around behind my back. Just like Claire's dead mother. You can't change your nature."

"Shut up," Claire snapped, her eyes reddening. "You're nothing but a lowlife living off dead people's money." She moved toward him.

"Claire, don't." Sarah grabbed her cousin's arm.

She lowered her voice, her eyes pleading, and shook her head gently. Never argue with a drunk, violent man. That was the lesson Sarah had learned through years of beatings.

She dropped her head, let her hair hide her shaking face, and pulled Claire behind her. She stood there silently, enduring the endless verbal abuse.

"Nothing to say? Useless piece of trash."

Percy kept at it for another ten minutes, then let out a heavy grunt, collapsed on the sofa, and started snoring.

Once he was out cold, Sarah tugged Claire upstairs. They tiptoed, carrying their shoes, climbed into the small attic room, and locked the door.

The lock clicked shut. Sarah's legs gave out, and she slid down the door to sit on the floor. She touched her cheek. Her fingertips came away warm and wet.

She closed her eyes. Shame and despair wrapped around her, layer by layer. She couldn't live like this anymore. She wanted dignity. She wanted to study at Silverpeak College. She wanted to escape this suffocating place. But she couldn't see a way out.

She thought about that prison volunteer application. She curled up, buried her face in her knees, bit her lip hard, and forced herself not to cry.

Sarah knew Claire wasn't wrong to apply. She blamed herself for being too cowardly. Submitting the application thirty seconds late—she was afraid that brief hesitation had cost her a spot.

But deep down, she still held onto a small hope. After so much suffering, maybe fate would throw her a bone. Maybe she'd get a chance to change her life.