I sit with my back to the wall. My cell is dim, but not dark. Slanting beams of light tumble through my window, interrupted by lines of shadow. I could turn the light on at any time, but what's the point? The room is no different dark than it is light. I am a prisoner to the world.

A rustle, and something slips under my door. I move over and reach for the thing. My fingers contact a papery rectangle that crinkles slightly when pressure is applied. Suddenly, there is a need for the light. I flip the switch, and squint until my eyes adjust.

I my hands is a book that I have never seen before. The cover depicts many, glorious, undescribable works of beauty, the title written in flowing swirls of script.

I open to the first page

and

just like that

I am

free.