Oak land

Chapter 1

The hallway they walked was dismal–white painted cinder block scummy with age that were more frequently than not adorned in not-so-clever phrases and gang signs scrawled in pencil. Neil scowled as he kept up with Brian, who'd introduced himself as Neil's youth specialist as soon as Neil had gotten past the security checkpoints and into the actual building.

"Classes are down the hall, 7:30 AM, do not be late. Two phones, you get one call a week. Rec room there–" Brian pointed and Neil gave an obligatory scan of the dirty linoleum, small box television, and twenty or so plastic chairs filled with the bodies of teenage boys.

It smelled like sweat.

"Don't lose your sweatshirt. You don't get another." He said this in the same monotonous voice that he'd relayed all other information–like he'd given the speech hundreds of times.

"Losing sweatshirts' a common issue?" Neil asked drily.

Brian shrugged, face betraying absolutely nothing but boredom.

They continued down the hall in silence, then turned left and went up the stairs and through a set of barred doors. The whole block smelled like metal and must, because what else would hell smell like.

"Rehabilitation therapy appointments are three times a week." Brian slowed to study his clipboard. "You are at 1PM, Monday, Wednesday, Friday. They'll give you a schedule. Dr. Dobson."

Neil grimaced.

"Dinner at 4:30 PM, lights out at 9PM, do not be late–"

"There's an exy court, yeah?"

Pausing, Brian turned and gave him a once over. "There's an exy court for kids who earn it. No one else."

"And here I was thinking it was one of the free amenities the facility had to offer."

"Smart ass, huh? Let's see how far that gets you."

They stopped at a solid white cell door with only a tiny 1x1 window. Brian rapped on it three times before grabbing the keys at his belt and unlocking the door. "Rec time is done in 10 minutes, then it's in-room until dinner." He motioned Neil into the room. "Hope you enjoy your stay."

The door closed with a muffled thump, and Neil was left surveying a tiny room with a single twin bunk bed, two dressers, a single mirror above the dressers that he shied away from, and a toilet and sink behind a divider that was a hideous 70s olive green color.

It was small, there was no window, and it was apparently going to be his home for the next year and a half.

There was no one else in the room, but the top bunk had a tangled mess of white sheets and was clearly already claimed, just like the dresser closest to the bed that boasted a stub of a pencil, a notepad, and a couple of paperback books.

Sighing, Neil moved across the room and stashed his meager pile of belongings into one of the drawers of the empty dresser–an extra blanket, an extra pair of sweatpants, two black t-shirts, two pairs of black briefs, two pairs of white socks, and the sweatshirt that was apparently coveted by enough of the inmates that it warranted a warning from the guard.

He wasn't thrilled about the idea of sleeping on the bottom bunk–top would have been a lot easier to know if someone was coming up or coming close–but he convinced himself that bottom would work, if only because it would be a faster route out of the room should the need arise.

There was a clock over the door–the sort of circular white kind with the metal grate over it that Neil could remember being in all of his elementary school classrooms. The second hand was ticking away.

Six minutes until he'd have the delightful privilege of meeting the asshole who he'd be sharing his space with.

Neil's eyes flickered towards the communal toilet and tried to swallow down the anxiety at the thought of having no privacy.

It didn't work.

He was here, he was stuck here, he was going to be found, he was going to die, he was going to die, he was going to die–

Neil sucked in a deep breath and fisted his hands in his sweatpants, forcing his body into a semblance of calm that was going to have to last long enough to last his 18 month stint.

Five minutes.

He went for the other guy's dresser.

In the bottom drawer, there was a pair of fingerless gloves, a couple of pairs of sports socks that were longer than the issued ones that Neil had received, and extra t-shirts and shorts.

Neil went through these quickly, pawing at the back of the dresser but coming up with nothing extra.

The next drawer was much the same–the same blanket that Neil had been given, along with two sweatshirts. Neil's eyebrows rose at that as he wondered who'd been stupid enough to lose one.

The top drawer held the same shirts, briefs, and socks that Neil had.

It also held a small bundle of letters.

Four minutes.

Neil pulled them out and quickly studied the envelopes. Some were addressed to an Andrew Doe , some to Andrew Minyard ℅ State of California, Oakland Juvenile Detention Facility.

All were from a return address in California, surname Spear.

He gave a quick read through everything, tucking facts about the foster mom who loved Andrew enough to write every week into his memory for the future. If he was going to be sharing space, he wanted to learn absolutely everything he could about the guy–because where Neil came from?

Secrets got people killed.

He folded the letters back up, but stuck them all in the wrong envelopes. Then he carefully rearranged all the drawers so that everything was still neatly folded, but clearly put in different places. It was organized chaos–the type that he hoped would set Andrew on edge just enough to be nervous.

The three books on the dresser turned out to be a disappointing mix of old classics–Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, and Frankenstein.

They did not inspire hope for an abundance of interesting reading material in the detention center library.

He took the copy of Great Expectations and set it on Andrew's pillow, then sat down on the lower bunk to wait for the door to open again.

It didn't take long.

"Don't kill him, Minyard," Neil heard another man say outside the door, and then it pushed open, revealing a kid even shorter than Neil with messy blond hair, a bruise purpling the entire left side of his jaw, and the same pair of standard issue sweatpants and t-shirt that Neil was currently dressed in.

"Hey, roomie," Neil drawled, refusing to stand up.

Andrew's eyes narrowed in displeasure as he stepped into the room, then they flicked up towards the dresser.

"Don't kill him." The man was wearing the same blue shirt and khaki pants that Brian wore–but his badge had flipped over so that Neil couldn't see his name. They regarded each other for just a second, then the door shut, leaving Andrew and Neil alone in the room.

Andrew didn't say anything, but he walked over to the dresser and brushed a hand along the top of the two remaining books, mouth narrowing with tension.

"Like Dickens?" Neil taunted.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Andrew turned to face Neil. He was completely still, but Neil could see the line of his jaw grow tight.

Your mouth will get you killed, his mom had said once.

It probably would.