“Rec!” the cellblock guard yelled up the stairs. 

I really didn’t want to go. With a 10-year medium custody sentence, I was locked in my cell 20 to 22 hours a day. I had to become comfortable, even content, locked in a cage. Here, at least, I was safe. On the block you can end up a suspect or a victim if you’re at the right place at the wrong time. 

For a while, I wished the cops had shot me when I caught the county escape charge that landed me here. I didn’t want to live. Block life was breaking me. I smiled and laughed less. I stopped pressing into prayer. I was shutting down. But sometimes God sends fairies to snap me out of the darkness.

“Bianca! Get up!” yelled my workout partner from her cell three doors down. “We’re going to rec!” 

“Douchebag!” I yelled back. “I’m not going. Leave me alone!” My grumpy tone usually works great as a people-repellent. Not as much with persistent fairies.

“Aww, good morning,” she said. “I love you too! I got coffee for us. Get ready.” 

As I debated my comeback, a small voice told me, “Go.” 

I brushed my teeth. I washed my face. I brushed my hair into a tight bun, and bundled up with socks, which we use as beanies and mittens when it’s cold. All around me people were using blow-dryers to try and keep their cells warm. I could already feel the freezing wind. 

I felt another pang of resistance and tried to talk my friend out of going when I met her at the bottom of the stairs. She shoved a steaming cup of coffee in my hand. 

“Drink this. Warm up, you big baby.” 

Imagine a football field cut in half, then border it with razor wire twice. In the middle is a concrete slab with a volleyball net and basketball court. This is our rec yard. Since the grass had frost, we circumnavigated the slab. 

My friend suddenly pointed down. “Oh no!” she said. “A dead butterfly!”

I picked up the butterfly, initially planning to give it back to the earth. But that small voice came again: “Breathe.” 

It was too cold to stand still. But I did what I was asked, breathing onto the delicate creature in my fist. 

I opened my hand to a lifeless butterfly. 

I thought it was crazy what I was doing. But then I heard the voice again. 

So I breathed on it again. 

I opened my hand. The legs stretched out. I put more hot air in my fist, and opened it again. The butterfly turned towards me on her legs and batted her wings. I gave one last hot breath and she flew off my hand. 

In that moment I realized I was the butterfly — frozen stiff by prison.