How he loathed these white halls.

It wasn’t just the sameness, turn after turn, corner after corner. It was the lack of dimension. Years of therapy had improved his gross motor skills and he now walked with the barest of limps. But not even microsurgery and corneal implants had been able to restore his depth perception completely. With no color to define these corridors, walking the halls of Cell 2 was like groping your way through a glass of milk.

It didn’t help that he was stoned.

“Hey, Jay!”

He slowed to a stop and steepled one hand against the wall. It was that or fall down.

“Didn’t expect to see you up so early, buddy. What is it, noon?”

The voice hailing him from behind was a Searcher. Had to be. They were the only people who called him by his preferred name. They were also the only ones who would understand why he wasn’t turning around or making any sudden moves.

“Way to partay, my friend. You are an inspiration to all who wear Blue. Even if you are a Black.”

Jay grinned before he realized how much it would hurt. “Shh,” he begged softly. “My head.”

Darren McCord stepped to his side, throttling back his laugh in sympathy. “What a night, eh?”

Jay nodded then quickly regretted the movement. The checkerboard floor swam into view, assaulting his balance even more than the colorless laminate walls. “These damn black and white tiles!” he moaned. He tipped his head back, but that only made things worse. A wave of bile rose in his throat.

Darren gave his laughter free rein. “Nothing wrong with the deck, man. Problem is with the sailor. You saluted the Captain twice too often, I’m thinking.”

True, he conceded. He’d inhaled almost a fifth of Morgan by himself. Not to mention the couple of joints that came my way. And, of course, there was the blow. Darren didn’t know about that particular recreational stimulant. He was counted among the non-gangers and was kept clueless about incoming shipments. For his own good.

The man’s broad smile dissolved into a sympathetic frown. When he spoke again it was in the barest of whispers. “You really don’t look good, friend. Have you been to bed at all?”

“Of course,” Jay answered with a hint of indignation. Then he lifted his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “Oh, wait. You mean to sleep.”

The man in blue clapped a hand to Jay’s shoulder, and chuckled. “Forget I asked. You deserve to look as bad as you do. Heading home then?”

“Are you kidding? It’s Sunday.”

It took a moment, but eventually his friend flinched in pain. “Aw shit, man. Really? Can’t you beg off? Just this once.”

“Don’t want to,” he said simply. Then he straightened and shifted his weight to move down the corridor. Darren stepped to the side and let him pass.

“It’s your funeral, buddy.”

Jay lifted an arm in farewell as they parted ways. One corner of his mouth tugged upwards in a smile. His side of the conversation had been a mixture of truths and lies, but his last statement had been sincere. He didn’t mind these Sunday afternoon visits one bit, no matter how he felt physically. Nothing in life gave him this much pleasure, dulled the pain and guilt he lived with day after day, or made him grateful to be alive – when he should have died alone in a forest 21 years before. Not booze. Not drugs. Not sex.

Who would have thought it?

There really was salvation for a trashed and troubled man like Johnny Valhailand. And it was a baby.