After by Amy Efaw Page B

to plead.
    The woman nudges Devon forward. “This is your cell.”
    Devon stumbles inside.
    The woman follows behind. She indicates the three fixtures. “Bed. Sink. Toilet. And that’s about it for an orientation.” She looks at Devon. “I’m going to allow you to keep the mattress, only because I’ll be monitoring you every five minutes. However , if I determine that you’re not using it appropriately, out it goes. Mental Health should be by to talk to you soon.” She pauses. “You have any questions for me?”
    Devon says nothing, her eyes locked on the stainless steel toilet in the corner. Horrifying. She can’t do this.
    “Okay, great.” The woman nods her head. “Well, once Mental Health talks to you, you’ll get a booklet that spells out all the rules and regulations for this place. You’ll be tested on it sometime tomorrow. We do this so everyone’s on the same page and knows exactly what to expect here.” She hesitates, clearing her throat. When she speaks again, she’s perceptively talking faster. “One final thing. I’m very sorry, but I have to ask you to remove your bra.”
    Bra? Devon fires the woman a look of shock, crosses her arms over her chest.
    “It’s for your own safety until Mental Health talks to you.”
    Devon feels her throat tighten, and she closes her eyes. She is so tired, so miserable, so utterly worn down.
    “Look.” The woman guard clears her throat again. “I don’t . . . I won’t give details, but bras can be used for dangerous purposes. As can blankets and sheets and even mattresses, the reason I had you leave your bedding outside.” She pauses. “So, please. Let’s just get this over with. Your bra?”
    Wearing bras is dangerous? Devon’s mind spins back before she can stop it. His lips on her face, leaving soft kisses on the tip of her nose, across her closed eyes. Her throat. She sighs, throws her head back, and his lips travel down the length of her neck. Tremors sizzle through her spine. His hands move gently down her back. Reaching under her shirt—slowly, cautiously—his fingertips touching her skin, an icy electricity. Unhooking the clasp . . .
    Devon shakes her head, pushing the memory away. No, when bras come off , that’s when things get dangerous.
    She opens her eyes. The woman guard’s hand is out, waiting.
    Devon presses her lips together and slowly turns away. Reaching behind her back, Devon shakily works the clasp from the outside through her jumpsuit and the undershirt beneath. Under her collar, she loops a thumb under one strap and shrugs it off her shoulder, then loops and shrugs the other strap before pulling the bra off entirely and out one sleeve. Her breasts are heavy and sore and only reluctantly surrender their damp fabric, finally slapping painfully against her chest.
    Devon balls up the bra in her fist.
    The tears are building again, so close and ready to roll. She breathes deeply. Keep it down. Don’t break now. She grabs her breasts then because she must; they are hard and hot, that prickling again. The warmth wets the jumpsuit between her fingers, trickles down her ribs.
    Devon turns quickly, thrusts the bra into the woman’s hand, not meeting her eyes. “It’s wet”—A small sob squeaks from her throat. “It’s so gross. I’m . . . sorry.” She covers her face with her hands.
    “Oh, listen.” The woman’s voice turns gentle now. “Don’t be.” She pats Devon softly on the shoulder as Devon sniffs and gasps with her effort to force the tears down. “I’ll get it washed in the meantime. Okay? And bring you a clean jumpsuit.” The woman pauses, her hand lingering on Devon’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but eventually it will. I promise.”
    Devon’s resolve is caving with that woman’s simple gesture. Her body shudders with the strain of keeping it all contained: the shame, the pain, the watching eyes, the secret whispers, the end the end the very end of