She drew constantly.
Pictures of houses. Pictures of flowers. Pictures of dark shapes that the counselors couldn’t quite interpret but that made them frown and scribble notes in their files.
The social worker, a kind woman named Rachel who’d been working with Emily for four months, wasn’t sure what to expect from this visit. The child had shown no emotional response when told she would be seeing her father. No excitement. No fear. Just that characteristic blank acceptance that told Rachel this little girl had learned that life didn’t ask for her input anyway.
They walked through the prison corridor together, Rachel’s hand warm around Emily’s small fingers. Inmates fell silent as they passed—a phenomenon Rachel had seen before. Something about a child in a place designed for men convicted of terrible things seemed to activate some dormant conscience even in the most hardened inmates.
The visitation room was small and beige, with reinforced windows and a table bolted to the floor. Daniel was already there, shackled at both wrists and ankles, wearing the faded orange of death row. He looked smaller than Rachel expected, worn down by five years of waiting to die, his hair graying at the temples, his face mapped with the kind of exhaustion that comes from insomnia that never ends.
When he saw Emily, something happened to his face that made Rachel’s chest tighten.
“My baby girl…” he whispered, and his voice cracked like old wood. Tears began to stream down his face without him seeming to notice.
Emily didn’t run. She didn’t cry. She walked forward slowly, like someone approaching a memorial, and she wrapped her small arms around her father’s neck as much as the restraints would allow.
