"I'm sure someone thought it might be...funny, or something," Sam's lawyer examined the note now.
"Samantha. You know he's dead. There was an autopsy, a trial..They showed you pictures for G-d's sake. I'm sorry, but this means nothing. Have you thought about...arrangements?"
"Like what, Bernie? Who's going to inherit my jumpsuit?! No, sorry, hadn't thought about that."
"I meant...Last meal, and all that. You actually might be able to request a visit alone with someone, or leaving the premises for a few hours accompanied by guards, to have some fresh air and all that."
"Last meal. Right. Fresh air. I don't know. I'll think about it. Probably something Italian. Do you think they could bring someone in, just for me to talk to for a few hours?"
"Talk to about what? You can't talk to me?"
"I mean in different languages. Like a translator or something."
"Oh. I might be able to arrange that. I'll talk to them," he scribbled something on a piece of paper, "I'm going to take this, if that's alright," he said, picking up the note and envelope.
"Sure. Do whatever you want. I'll see you next week."
"Hang in there, Sam. I'm still working on a few things. Don't give up."
"Yeah, OK."
"With these things, you never know, there's a way to stay the execution--"
"The execution. Right. OK. I'll see you later, Bernie."
She dreamt about Nicholas that night. Nicholas and Derek, they were both there. Speaking Greek.
117 days
Sam hadn't thought about Nick this much in a long time. She never believed in ghosts, but this was the closest she thought anyone could get to being haunted. His face was everywhere. His cold, dead face. She thought she had put it behind her, his death. She told herself it was all done with--everyone saw it that way: the lawyers, the police, even his parents. The whole thing was dead and buried along with the bodies of her
"Samantha. You know he's dead. There was an autopsy, a trial..They showed you pictures for G-d's sake. I'm sorry, but this means nothing. Have you thought about...arrangements?"
"Like what, Bernie? Who's going to inherit my jumpsuit?! No, sorry, hadn't thought about that."
"I meant...Last meal, and all that. You actually might be able to request a visit alone with someone, or leaving the premises for a few hours accompanied by guards, to have some fresh air and all that."
"Last meal. Right. Fresh air. I don't know. I'll think about it. Probably something Italian. Do you think they could bring someone in, just for me to talk to for a few hours?"
"Talk to about what? You can't talk to me?"
"I mean in different languages. Like a translator or something."
"Oh. I might be able to arrange that. I'll talk to them," he scribbled something on a piece of paper, "I'm going to take this, if that's alright," he said, picking up the note and envelope.
"Sure. Do whatever you want. I'll see you next week."
"Hang in there, Sam. I'm still working on a few things. Don't give up."
"Yeah, OK."
"With these things, you never know, there's a way to stay the execution--"
"The execution. Right. OK. I'll see you later, Bernie."
She dreamt about Nicholas that night. Nicholas and Derek, they were both there. Speaking Greek.
117 days
Sam hadn't thought about Nick this much in a long time. She never believed in ghosts, but this was the closest she thought anyone could get to being haunted. His face was everywhere. His cold, dead face. She thought she had put it behind her, his death. She told herself it was all done with--everyone saw it that way: the lawyers, the police, even his parents. The whole thing was dead and buried along with the bodies of her
