After by Amy Efaw Page A

at Remann Hall after Intake, but the priority today was getting you into court. So, you can just drop your stuff right here, and I’ll take you to your cell.”
    Devon stares at the woman, confused. She doesn’t get the connection between Mental Health and a pillow and blankets, why she must relinquish them if she’s going to remain here. She squeezes her bedding harder, takes a step backward.
    The woman cocks her head, a frown creasing the space between her eyebrows. “Um, I think I just told you to drop your bedding here? You cannot take it with you. This is for your own safety, Devon, until Mental Health determines differently.”
    The room quiets.
    Devon can feel eyes, many eyes, from the tables behind her slowly homing in. Devon squeezes her own shut, feels her lips tremble. She just can’t do what this woman is asking of her. Not here. Not with all those girls watching. They’ll see her, they’ll see her jumpsuit. And then they’ll all know.
    Devon shakes her head.
    “Okay.” The woman sighs. “I don’t think you quite get how things work around here. It goes like this: I tell you to do something, and you do it. End of discussion. Now, let’s try this one last time. Please drop your bedding, right here and right now , and then I will take you to your cell.”
    Devon’s arms quiver, from all the squeezing and the fear. The woman is obviously prepared to mete out punishment if Devon doesn’t comply. Devon can’t imagine what that punishment might be, but how could it be worse than what she’s just been asked to do? But still . . . she is unaccustomed to punishment or authority-figure disapproval. She is unaccustomed to confrontation. Except with an opposing player near her goal, but that skill has no crossover application in a place like this.
    “Can’t I”—Devon takes in a shaky breath and swallows—“couldn’t I just . . . when I get to . . . my cell? Please? I promise—”
    “No,” the woman interrupts. “And I’m losing patience, fast.”
    Devon looks at the woman while she’s looking back at Devon. Devon knows she has no choice now. She relaxes her arms. The bedding tumbles to her feet in a heap.
    The woman lifts her chin with an expression of self-satisfaction. Her eyes travel from Devon’s face, down to her chest, and stop. She takes a small intake of breath, whispers, “Oh.”
    Devon’s face burns. She looks at the floor.
    For a moment Devon and the woman remain like that.
    The room stills around them.
    The woman quickly steers Devon toward the back wall of perfectly spaced olive doors. They must pass the two round plastic tables, all the eyes quietly tracking them. The woman does her best to shield Devon, but those eyes, like the ones in the courtroom, are sharp. They don’t miss the wetness of Devon’s clothes, dark and ringed like massive armpit sweat, except freakishly misplaced.
    Whispers erupt. Soft at first, then urgent. A muffled giggle.
    Devon’s hair prickles, pulls away from her scalp. They are discussing her and laughing. Somehow Devon’s legs function, move her across the room.
    “Hey! What’s up with her boobs?”
    The woman guard stops at one of the olive doors. D-12 is stenciled in white on the doorframe above it.
    The woman releases Devon and unlocks the door. Devon counts breaths until the heavy door is pulled open, anxious to escape the eyes and finally hide. The woman moves aside, allowing Devon to pass.
    Devon steps forward, peers in.
    Light gray cinder block walls. Dark gray cement floor with a drain in the center. Stainless steel toilet and sink in the far corner. Blue plastic rectangular block against one wall—the bed, she guesses, because of the thin rubberized mattress that’s tossed over it. Three narrow slats of frosted plastic on the far wall, allowing three faint horizontal shafts of sunlight into the space. The faint reek of urine.
    A tiny, walled-in cage.
    Devon turns to the woman. This can’t be real. She opens her mouth to say something,