CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY THREE – COLD IN THE CELL

Over the next few weeks, Kayla adapted in increments to the cold brutality of incarceration. She awoke every morning at 5 am to the clatter of metal doors, dressing quickly into the thin orange scrubs that offered no protection against the chill. She ate the nourishment sludge dutifully, having learned better than to anger the shot-callers by wasting resources. In the yard, she kept her gaze averted and kept her head down, feeling like a wounded gazelle being sized up by a pack of ravenous lions. Gradually, she recognized the sharp delineations between the various cliques and factions that comprised the inmate population. There were the Latin and Black girl gangs who wielded influence through sheer force and numbers. The Aryan Sisterhood with their swastika tattoos and unrepentant bigotry. The old school "families" from Boston, New York and New Jersey with their made codes of silence and loyalty. And of course the solitary solo artists - the depraved loners and serial criminals