Chapter Text
The days, they go so quickly
Can't even stop them
Don't even want to
— Diane Cluck, “Heartloose”
Everyone in Berrien County knew the local legend of the little girl who fell through the ice.
Fresh coverage crunched beneath heavy snow boots. The night before, St. Joe got a good thirteen-inches of snowfall, and the local school district declared school closures before sunrise. Children gathered their wooden sticks, skates, and woolen gloves to play pick-up hockey games across the frozen, neighborhood pond. They waddled like newborn ducklings—neat in a single file row—up the makeshift trail. Lips chapped. Breath puffed into the chilled air like cigar smoke.
The girl is clumsy on her new ice skates, but she does her best against the older kids while her sister stays back at the pond’s edge. Like the silver ball of a pinball machine, the puck moved quickly and erratically on the ice. Tightly focused, yet slightly wobbly on her Goodwill skates, Mel didn’t notice when the ice layer thinned out underneath her. When it cracked, spiderwebbed outward from the metal blades. And then: she fell.
From land, high pitched wails frightened a flock of cardinals from their tree perch. They scattered into the overcast sky.
Frigid pond water seeped into her jacket, her sweater, undershirt. Up her nose and ears, down her throat. All the way through her skin and straight to the marrow. She tried moving her arms against the undercurrent that’s intent to suck her down below, amongst the murky depths and dead, moss-covered tree limbs and—
Mel can’t feel her hands, her fingers. Last summer, those same hands were sticky with tart juice from picked cherries, waxy and plump with their bright green stems still attached. She brought them to her mother in offering, observed how she sugar-boiled the fruit into jam, and distributed the mixture evenly into glass Mason jars.
While Mel worked picking the fruit, Becca sat on a checkered picnic blanket, safely separating herself from the grass; it irritated her legs. Made her itchy all over.
“Can we be best friends forever? Even when we’re old,” Becca whispered the last word, like it would be the worst thing in the entire world to age.
Mel nodded, bashfully licked the cherry residue off her fingers. “We can live in a big house, just us.”
“No boys?”
To that, Mel pulled a face, squished up her lips and nose. “Boys are trouble.”
After: the pair would spend the evening flipping through the glossy pages of the American Girl Doll catalog. Their family couldn’t afford any of the dolls, nonetheless, the two sisters laid on their bedroom floor, the shag carpet imprinted on their soft belly-skin. With a thick Crayola marker, they each circled the doll type and furniture and clothes and accessories that they would never get. Giggled until their mother begged them to turn off the light.
When they’re older, the catalog will be replaced by D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths and her sister will marvel at the vibrant, pencil drawn depiction of Thalia—the Muse of Comedy—posed as a dancer. That was Becca to a T: someone who wore bright colors, spun in circles, constantly soaked up a new special interest like a dish sponge. Always wanted to make her family laugh. Even at the county hospital, following diagnostic test after diagnostic test.
“Look! It’s you,” Becca said and pointed to Melpomene. The Muse of Tragedy. Stoic and glum. “They’re sisters too.”
Two of the nine muses; daughters of the goddess of memory, who kept their mothers tales of the fall of the Titans and Olympus and the moral world alive. Long after she was gone.
Jacqueline King, their mother, majored in English at the University of Michigan with a strong interest in classicism. Read The Oresteia, Medea, and the Iliad in the original Greek, making pencil annotations of her own translations in the margins. Their father was a visiting scholar from Cornell who taught her Ancient Minoan and Mycenaean Archaeology class. He was married; Jacqueline got pregnant anyway.
(In fifth grade, Mel’s teacher assigned the class to map out their personal family trees. She walked to the public library and looked up their father’s name—Gregory Smith-Daniels—on the public access computer. The first result was an obituary in The Ithaca Journal : brain aneurysm at forty-five, when she and Becca were four years old. He remained married to his wife until the day he died, never contacting her mother about the two daughters he’d left behind in Michigan.)
—A stick found its way through the water. Mel used whatever remaining strength her small body had to hold onto the rough bark with both hands, and felt the strain in her shoulder muscles when she’s yanked from the water. She flopped on top of the ice like an arctic seal, wiggling her body as far away from the ice hole as she could.
The older kids ran for help. Becca held the stick, her whole body shaking.
At the hospital, the emergency department nurse told their mother how lucky she was: If your daughter was in the water for even thirty more seconds, today would have been a different story. She gives both Mel and Becca lollipops and they bury deeper into the complimentary heated blanket. They hadn’t stopped holding hands since before loading into the ambulance.
Memories are interesting. When and where they choose to pop up. During her MS-3 year, Mel observed at the Darlington Neurology offices in Detroit, specifically in a clinic that worked with early-onset Alzheimer's patients. She studied CT scans and MRI images, and could see the section where the amyloid plaques and neurofibrillary tangles built up, blocking connections to the neurons. Clinically, she treated patients whose memories looped, repeating the same key moment or observation or sensation over and over again.
Mel feels like that now, ricocheting back to the memory of her childhood accident. The cold—an absolute shock to the system, like a thousand little sewing needles pricking her skin—absolutely reverberates now, in the present, when the WTAE Breaking News notification hits her phone:
Pittsburgh Doctor Sentenced to Five Years in Drug Diversion and Theft Case
Everyone in Berrien County knew the local legend of the little girl who fell through ice.
And now, at 6:30 PM on a muggy July evening, everyone in the city knew about Dr. Frank Langdon.
She never clicked on that WTAE article, or the half dozen that blanket the Pittsburgh media circuit over the next week. Didn’t watch the court recorded-video, couldn’t handle the precise moment Langdon’s life crumbled, when he openly sobbed into his palms, shoulders violently shaking under an ill-fitted suit jacket. The way he helplessly looked over his shoulder, expecting to hug his wife and children for the last time before officers handcuff him for processing. The heartbreaking realization that they’d already left the courthouse, exited outside before the judge even read out the verdict.
Mel doesn’t know how to make sense of it all: the five year sentence and two years of supervised release, the stripping of Dr. Langdon’s medical license. The dual DEA and FDA investigation at PTMC, where agents pulled and analyzed every patient case Langdon treated over the course of his residency. How they pinpoint his shift towards drug diverting behavior about six months into his PGY-3, with patterns emerging in his charting directly related to benzodiazepine prescribed patients. How he started to volunteer working every holiday, cover shifts, clock in an upwards of two hours early. The overprescribing and false documentation within patient records. Tampering with Ativan, resealing the vials after diluting the medication with saline. The burglarizing of the ED’s prescription drug supply, leading to a complete reevaluation of the patient safety measures—now, a security guard is permanently stationed next to the medical supply.
How, within the hospital walls, his name is now whispered as if he’s a monster under patient beds—like if they say it three times, in rapid succession, he will suddenly appear. How it turns Mel’s stomach every time she thought about it.
For their birthday, Mel gifted her sister a new tarot deck to replace her torn, falling apart Rider-Waite cards. Becca was addicted to those ASMR YouTube tarot reading videos. The ones where a soft spoken reader prompted the viewer to pick a card from one of the corresponding decks in front of them. When her sister recreated these videos at home—splitting her cards three ways, placing a different crystal on top of each pile—Mel always picked amethyst. She loved how the lilac crystals jutted out and faded into silver, sparkling under the lamplight of their living room.
They’d just moved from Michigan. Most of the important things had been unpacked for a while, but half of their belongings still remained in cardboard boxes, tucked neatly into the corner of their should be dining room. Mel heard a car whizzing past from the busy street outside and the faint buzz of an ambulance siren—an omen of what was to come tomorrow morning, when she started her first shift at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
“We’re going to see who your soulmate is, Mel,” Becca promised. She loved soulmate/romance/twin-flame/missed connection themed readings. Mel obliged to the whole thing because she loved Becca.
Becca started by flipping over the first card: the Two of Cups. Becca let out a squawk, slapping a hand over her mouth so fast that Mel worried she bruised her lip with one of her chunky rings. “That is the romance card, Mel. Do you see the two lovers? Each holding their own cup but are connected through a mutual understanding, passion, and a shared connection?”
“Yeah, Becs, I see them.” Against her better judgement, Mel reached out to trace the snakes emerging between the chalices. Like the Staff of Asclepius , she thinks. The Greek healing symbol, the same one emboldened inside the Star of Life: the emblem of emergency medical services, stamped on the door of every ambulance and ED waiting room.
“You’re definitely meeting your soulmate tomorrow. Probably kissing him in an on call room too, just like Grey’s Anatomy.”
“It’s one card Becca.”
She enthusiastically flips over the next card. “Let’s see about that.”
The Tower.
“Oh.”
“Is that bad?”
“There are no such things as good cards or bad cards. The Tower just represents a sudden change. Upheaval.” Mel isn’t quite so sure about that, looking at the depiction of the violent lightning strike and the people toppling down to the rugged cliff side below.
“Am I the tower getting struck by lightning or one of the people falling to their death?”
Becca ignores her question. Next card.
Ten of Swords, with all ten impaled straight into a dead man's back, his body on the ground, stormy skies across the horizon. There’s no extra commentary needed for this one.
Her sister silently reveals the last card. Six of Swords.
“A lot of swords tonight. I don’t know what that says about me,” Mel attempted to joke. She typically does not read into symbols or mysticism or signs. But the image of two people in a boat, navigating their six upright swords across rocky waters towards the tranquil shoreline nags at her.
“Well, at least in Six of Swords, the couple is in it together,” Becca quietly sweeps up the cards and shuffles them back into her deck. “They’re not suffering alone.”
Mel doesn’t sleep the night after the PittFest shooting. Just stares at the wall directly above the television set for a long time, after she and Becca finished their dual pizza and spaghetti leftovers. The closing credits of Elf roll in the background.
“Did you find someone to kiss?”
Mel’s chest caves. All she thinks about is Dr. Langdon’s face, leaning against the brick wall outside the ambulance bay, popping a mint into his mouth.
“Actually, I think something better happened. I made a friend.”
Smart Communications/PA DOC
Francis Langdon/AB 23000368
SCI Elmhurst
PO Box 33028
St. Petersburg, Florida 33733
Dr. Langdon,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. I’ve drafted this letter out so many times, you wouldn’t believe what the overflowing trashcan in the corner of my living room looks like right now. My sister Becca (remember her from our shift together?) would have a field day if she saw the mess. We tend to run a tight, orderly ship in the King sisters' household.
Online, it said to wait to start written correspondence until you were placed in a permanent facility. This letter may take a lot of time to reach you—it needs to be sent all the way to Florida for workers to open, check its contents, and scan it to Elmhurst, where it will (hopefully!) be printed and delivered to you. When I started thinking about contacting you, I didn’t know it would be so involved. Sorry…now I’m rambling. You probably already know the process.
This might seem strange, since we only worked that one shift together, but I just wanted to let you know that you have someone out here. A friend, if you want. Someone to reach out to. If letter writing isn’t your thing, we can always use email or messaging through GTL. I think that’s what the PA Department of Corrections uses—their website is a little confusing. Or a phone call? My mailing address should be on the return envelope…just let me know. I’ll be here.
Mel.
Smart Communications/PA DOC
Francis Langdon/AB 23000368
SCI Elmhurst
PO Box 33028
St. Petersburg, Florida 33733
Dr. Langdon,
On my first day, I assisted Dr. Collins in successfully delivering a healthy newborn with shoulder dystocia who went into a state of asphyxia. The baby was so small, tucked up against my chest as I carried him to the incubator. The joy I felt when I got to hold the infant was overwhelming and after, my first thought was that I needed to find you. I knew you would be proud. Would we have high fived? Celebrated in the hallway? Or, maybe, you would’ve answered with a polite nod, moved on to a more interesting case off the patient board?
I never got the chance to tell you, so I’m letting you know now.
Mel.
Smart Communications/PA DOC
Francis Langdon/AB 23000368
SCI Elmhurst
PO Box 33028
St. Petersburg, Florida 33733
Dr. Langdon,
Becca and I went hiking this past weekend through Allegheny National Forest. Well…hiking is a strong word for what we did. It’s more glorified walking through the “baby” trails. Still, we both don’t have hiking boots—remind me to never wear my old pair of converse for nature excursions ever again—so both of us have been nursing sore feet and calves into Monday. It was worth it though. Becca collected quite the assortment of dandelions, edible ferns, and wild elderberries and we both marveled at the views from overlook points. The stillness of the blue water against the thick greenery of trees made all the bug bites and near-stumbles up the path worth it.
I’m not a big “picture” person; Becca is much more camera ready than I will ever be. I have the tendency to analyze every single detail of the shot: myself, the background, if my teeth look weird, if there’s a smidge of dirt on my glasses. Recently, though, I’ve been taking baby steps in living in the moment for a little bit longer and snapping casual photos on my phone. Hopefully, you like both these pictures. One is from the overlook and the other is a selfie of Becca and I. She took it and said that she’s an expert in getting the good angles.
I hope everything is okay. I’m here if you need anything.
Mel.
Smart Communications/PA DOC
Francis Langdon/AB 23000368
SCI Elmhurst
PO Box 33028
St. Petersburg, Florida 33733
Dr. Langdon,
In my first year of my residency, I thought about killing myself.
No one in medical school really prepares you for the brutality of your intern year: the hours, workload, the stress, the loneliness. I matched with Sacred Grace Medical Center in Grand Rapids, Michigan in emergency medicine. Every day, I woke up and sank deeper into the overwhelming feeling of wanting to not exist anymore. Thinking about what it would be like to throw myself off my apartment balcony to the parking lot below. I wasn’t eating, because I thought if I starved, I could shrink farther and farther away into a void of nothingness.
Becca and I rarely saw each other: me, on rotations; her, with an at-home care worker during the day, who often made sure Becca took her medications early, so she would be in bed before I even clocked out of my shift. When we did hang out, I was so mentally checked out. Becca didn’t understand why I wasn’t answering her questions or reacting to her stories. We fought, for maybe the first time in our entire lives. Big blow-ups. Screaming matches that left both of us feeling raw and empty for days. Stonewalling each other.
I’ve always been sensitive. My mom used to call me a natural empath, but I never bought into that new wave label. My feelings were so big, yet I couldn’t mentally sort them into the right categories. I would react to situations wrong. Cry when I shouldn’t have. At Sacred Grace, I started to observe the medical personnel around me, mirror how they moved through the world, picking up on little hints and tells to mask the uncertainty inside.
I remember one shift, the attending on-call pulled me aside. Told me I didn’t have what it took to be in the ED. A flight risk, he said. Old school guy, worked at Sacred Grace since the ‘80s. Gruff, blunt, but never cruel. He sent me home after that shift and I deserved it: I showed up late; was constantly behind on my charting; broke down every time there was a patient code, regardless if it was my case or not. My coping skills were non-existent. I was burning out at a rapid pace.
That call-out was the catalyst towards me getting help. I connected with a DBT therapist. We moved to Pittsburgh—Becca’s acceptance into her care center, with its focus on art therapy, was a blessing. The short-term stint at the VA was a bonus, giving me a little distance to build back up my mental reserve that ran dry. Becca started to figure out her own routine at the center—staying there during the week and living in our apartment on the weekends. She made friends with the front-desk clerk and a fellow resident named Wilhelm.
My first day at PTMC was a new start. In that surgery together, the emergency cricothyrotomy, however, that old, annoying feeling of dread bubbled up my throat. Of doubt and shame and worthlessness.
But you were there. And it got a little bit easier. I think about what you said in the break room a lot. Hell, I thought about it last week when I assisted Dr. Garcia with an emergency resuscitative thoracotomy. I’d never done it before and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I held the scalpel. And I thought Langdon needed me. The ED needs doctors like me and took a deep breath, calming the tremors.
There are dozens of examples just from this past year I could pull from where your previous words sharpened my focus. You were the best part of one of the worst shifts I’ve ever had. People need you. We are here, please don’t forget that.
Mel.
On the one year anniversary of the PittFest shooting, the PTMC board of trustees unveils a memorial wall in the waiting room lobby, commemorating all the names of the emergency medical workers who were on call that evening. Every single one of you on the floor that day performed miracles. Frank Langdon’s name is notably absent.
Inmate Mail — PA. DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS
Mel,
I want to apologize for not responding to your letters sooner. You don’t deserve the silence I greeted you with.
It’s not an excuse, but I had a lot of things going on after I was officially sentenced and went through processing at Camp Hill. It took about six weeks for them to assign me a home facility and security level. In that time, I did a bunch of substance abuse and psychiatric evaluations. Questionnaire after questionnaire without doctors ever telling me the results, just something to put into my chart that they’ll never let me read.
I haven’t heard from my wife, Abby. I don’t know how my children are doing. She served me divorce papers right after the initial arrest. Asked the judge to be granted full custody and won. Before the sentencing, she told me they were moving back in with her parents in Baltimore. I don’t want to think about not living in the same state as my kids anymore.
The DOC finally placed me at Elmhurst. They have me in a drug & alcohol treatment cell block. The inmate population is divided—a mix between the short-sentence guys and lifers. I get along better with the long-term guys, they’re not as jumpy.
A shoulder dystocia? I left you alone for a couple hours and that’s what you got up to? You have a one-up on me now. I’ve never worked on a case like that in the ED. And I think we would have totally high fived.
Thank you for sending me the pictures from Allegheny. I’ve hiked that trail many times, especially in the fall when all the autumn foliage comes in. I’m from Elkins, West Virginia, a small Appalachian mountain town right outside the Monongahela National Forest. Pennsylvania’s pretty, but hiking up those mountain trails, looking out below the city…even as a cocky teenager, it made me feel small. Like when you look up at a starry sky and realize that you’re just a speck of dust on a space rock floating in the galaxy. Next time Becca forages through the national park, she should look for the wild garlic mushrooms that sprout along the trails. Those are my favorite.
I don’t know if I make a good pen pal, but I liked getting your letters. It’s the only mail I’ve received. We could branch out if you wanted—try email. A couple of guys use GTL to talk with their wives via a commissary tablet, but I like the fact I can tangibly hold your letters in my hands. Plus, that thing has to be synched to a lobby kiosk every thirty days or it locks you out. Don’t have to worry about the connection issues and internet outages if I want to re-read paper letters. And that messaging shit is expensive. Each one is fifteen cents, like it’s 2006 again.
Maybe we could work up to a phone call one day? I think I would like that, just not right now.
That attending physician in Michigan was wrong. Sacred Grace lost one of the best doctors I’ve ever seen. I hope it keeps them up at night.
Frank.
Smart Communications/PA DOC
Francis Langdon/AB 23000368
SCI Elmhurst
PO Box 33028
St. Petersburg, Florida 33733
Dr. Langdon,
You don’t have to apologize for not responding right away. Things take time. I know you wouldn’t hold it against me if the roles were reversed.
I’m deeply sorry to hear about your divorce and custody arrangements with your kids. I don’t know the specifics, but I saw the way you’d fiddle with that friendship bracelet on your wrist and could tell how much you cherished it. Your kids have a good dad.
I’ve never been to West Virginia and unfortunately, my only knowledge of the state comes from the John Denver song. But I did Google Elkins. Becca and I fell down the rabbit hole of looking at pictures of the Tygart Flyer train. Have you ever done the tour? And you’re right—even from the photos, I can see how easy it would be to fall in love with the views. I bet at night, when the sky is clear, you could see a whole host of stars and constellations and planets.
Our hometown was like that too. We grew up in St. Joseph, Michigan. St. Joe for short. For a long time, it was nicknamed the Rivera of the Midwest. Every spring and summer, the city is inundated with tourists along the Lake Michigan coastline. Silver Beach—the main one—became a little unbearable in the high season, but the main concession stand had the best fast food. Becca and I would blow all of our collected allowance money from pulling weeds in our mother’s garden on cheese fries and soft serve ice cream.
The best time, however, to visit Silver Beach was during the winter. In the early morning, right at dawn, you could see the faded imprint of stars up in the atmosphere. My mother would bring Becca and I with her down when she collected beach glass that washed up to the shore. She hoarded what she collected in a shoe box under her bed, saving it to one day mosaic our entire front porch with her little treasure pieces. I attached below a picture Becca took of one of our last outings on Lake Michigan before moving to Grand Rapids. Please ignore the awkward crop—this letter was originally returned to sender by the DOC because of potentially containing “sexually graphic” content. I was wearing a top with spaghetti straps.
I think you now know where Becca inherits her foraging from. I told her about your wild garlic mushroom tip, and although she seemed very dubious, I think she’ll come around when they’re in season.
Letters work for me. I’ve enjoyed writing them. I’ve been meaning to ask you—if you feel comfortable, I would like to reimburse you for any money you’ve had to spend on letter writing materials. I know the PA DOC uses JPay for commissary funds and I could create an account. It’s no big deal! Just let me know.
Thinking of you.
Mel.
Inmate Mail — PA. DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS
Mel,
You know, you can call me Frank in our letters, right? Or Langdon, if you want. I’m not a Doctor anymore.
Growing up, I wish I looked up at the stars more. It would’ve done me a lot of good. Probably wouldn’t have ended up here. Back then, I spent the days more concerned with how quickly I could make it out of Elkins, avoid the house when my dad was home, and shoot up old PBR cans with BB guns in the woods. Everything else took a backseat. Who knew that in fifteen years, the most I could currently wish for would be to take out my friend and her sister for cheese fries and ice cream.
I’m so sorry about the weird censorship rules. I loved the picture you sent. I’ve spent the last week trying to figure them out—my cellmate gets vintage Playboys officially mailed in via his cousin in Philly, but God forbid Mel King wears a tank top. So much of life inside here ultimately depends on which CO is working that day. Some are more lenient than others or have deals with certain inmates. You must have had a real asshole, rule follower scanning the mail when your letter came through.
Abby sent a card that Tanner and Eloise made. She had to have them remake it; the DOC denied their original artwork because they glued tiny pieces of construction paper into a makeshift sunset—there apparently is a no glue, tape, or other adhesives rule. Things are fragile between the two of us right now, but she agreed to consider a virtual video visit so I could see the kids. Baby steps.
Would it be okay to add you to my official contact list? I hope I’m not crossing any lines. If you just want to keep everything to physical letters or other forms of electronic communication, that’s perfectly fine. If you ever wanted to visit (either in-person or by video), I would need to get approval. All the information I need for the form would be your phone number—I already have your first and last name and home address. I only have Abby, the kids, and my mom on there right now, but I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you.
Also, you don’t have to put any money into my commissary account. Spend it on yourself or Becca. Do something fun. Go out downtown. Travel. Hop on a plane (or the Tygart Flyer train…and yes, I have been on it. Multiple times) and see what happens. You deserve to spend what's yours on you. Not making sure that I’m taken care of inside here.
Frank.
Inmate Mail — PA. DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS
What the Hell, Mel. I just got a JPay receipt that someone uploaded funds to my account after I specifically said you didn’t have to do that. If you're just going to go ahead and send me money, fine. I’ll start a tab to pay you back at the end of this: the first three line items are commissary (10/13/25), Lake Michigan concession food, and Tygart Flyer train tickets.
Frank.
Smart Communications/PA DOC
Francis Langdon/AB 23000368
SCI Elmhurst
PO Box 33028
St. Petersburg, Florida 33733
Langdon,
It’s not that big of a deal…do not even think about starting a tab! I like helping you out—consider it exposure therapy to get comfortable with people caring for you. It should be enough money to set you up with a tablet. Maybe that would be easier to talk with your kids? Or for Abby to send you pictures? Remember, baby steps are still steps.
And Frank, I would be honored to be added to your official contact list. My phone number is attached below.
Mel.
Inmate Mail — PA. DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS
Mel,
Something happened yesterday that I’m not proud of—I don’t know how long it will take for this letter to reach you, but I needed to let someone know I’m physically okay.
Yesterday, while I waited in the commissary line, this inmate in front of me dropped to the ground and started seizing. The CO on-duty ran over and basically did everything you're taught in First Aid 101 never to do: held him down, pinned him to the floor while trying to open his jaw. Stuck his fingers in his mouth. Did nothing to protect his head against the concrete floor.
Mel, I snapped. I shoved the CO over and just…took charge. Like I was back at PTMC all over again, moving on gut instincts and basic training. What was probably thirty-seconds felt like hours. I protected the skull, turned the guy on his side and into a recovery position. Double checked to see if he had an insulin pump or any ID jewelry on him (I don’t think the DOC would have confiscated that, but you never know with those bastards). If I had to guess, it was probably a Tonic-clonic seizure; I don’t know if they took him to medical after this.
The CO must’ve called for back-up, because after the guy stabilized, it was my turn to be shoved—face first right into the wall. Cuffed me. Assigned to a ten-day stint in the hole as retaliation.
I shouldn't have gotten myself involved in it. Kept my head down, eyes forward. Thought about my kids and you and all the consequences—a mark on my record, the stain this could have on future parole hearings, no chance to see sunlight or talk to another person over the next ten days. Got lucky they even let me take some of my paper and a pencil with me so I could write to you.
They wouldn’t even pass on a quick message to Abby through my case manager, letting her know that our scheduled virtual visit would be cancelled. I don’t want to even think about her rounding up Eloise and Tanner, setting them up in front of the iPad, ready to video chat with their dad, all to get ghosted. How I let Abby down again, reminding her how she’s forever tied to someone addicted to getting himself into situations.
I’m not sure how many letters they will let me send from here, so I’ll write to you the second I’m officially out. I’m sorry to leave you waiting again.
Frank.
Smart Communications/PA DOC
Francis Langdon/AB 23000368
SCI Elmhurst
PO Box 33028
St. Petersburg, Florida 33733
Langdon,
We may need to think about setting up some type of daily, short-term message system alongside our letters. Just a quick hello to and from each other. Insurance that both of us are doing alright.
This has been rough. From the posted date of your last letter—the one about your solitary confinement—it’s been almost two weeks of not hearing from you. Compulsively, I check my apartment mailbox every day in hopes of seeing an envelope from you inside.
Some of our co-workers noticed something was up: Dana brought in an extra cup of homemade wild rice soup. McKay covered a pediatric sinus infection case so I could take an extra break. Samira and Heather invited me to join their two-person book club. They meet once-a-month at this teashop in Squirrel Hill; this month, we’re reading Braiding Sweetgrass. I can send you a copy if you want to privately join us.
No one at work knows that I’m in contact with you. You are not a secret. If someone were to ask, I would be honest with them. But selfishly, I like that this is just between us.
Please, let me know when you are okay.
Mel.
November 7, 2025
Francis, 7:39 AM
Delivered at 12:48 PM, November 7
Officially back in my cell as of this morning. I’m talking to my case worker and the warden about the incident today, hopefully getting it expunged from my record. Will be writing you a follow-up letter and placing it in the collection box as soon as possible. Please, Mel, remember to take care of yourself.
Melissa, 1:02 PM
Delivered at 7:15 AM, November 8
The same applies for you. I’m glad you are safe. Let me know how your meeting goes ASAP.
November 8, 2025
Francis, 7:02 PM
Delivered at 8:59 AM, November 9
The meeting went okay. The incident will still be on my record, but since it’s my first offense, they said it shouldn’t impact any future parole hearings. The CO got transferred though (should have been fired but it wasn't my call).
Becca’s care facility hosts a Fall art festival every year. They close down the streets outside and set up booths on either sidewalk, with each student getting their own table to sell some of the pieces made throughout the semester. Becca’s ceramics display—small dishes and mugs and a couple of sparkly glazed flower vases in various pastel hues—is popular, close to selling out before the afternoon sets in. She’s insistent that everyone who buys a piece has it neatly wrapped in glitter tissue paper before putting it inside a stamped paper bag. As a consequence, silver and gold glitter smear across the bridge of Mel’s nose to the tops of her cheeks. Becca laughs, snapping a picture on Mel’s phone.
“I’m sending that one to your mystery friend.”
“Becca, don’t! Each message costs money. It’s not like the regular texts we send each other.” Her sister shrugs, unlocking the money deposit box at their booth and hands Mel a quarter.
“Well, I already sent it. That should cover it, right?”
“With interest.”
“Could you cover the booth for me? I promised Wilhelm I'd say hi; I don’t think anyone’s bought his watercolor paintings yet.”
“Of course. Take your time.” She watches as her sister darts into the crowds mulling through the festival, her brunette ponytail bobbing behind her.
Checking her GTL message portal, she confirms that Becca did in fact send the picture. In the autumn sun, the glitter reflects off her skin like magic freckles. It should hit Frank’s phone in about two days. The photos always take a little longer.
Back in July, she had no idea what any of this meant. Now, there is a small menagerie of apps on her phone, as vital as a life line: JPay for adding funds to Langdon’s Commissary account; Securus for phone calls whenever he’s ready to take that next step; GTL for quick, daily check-ins.
If she compartmentalizes well enough, she can pretend her messages with Langdon exist in a regular chat—just two co-workers, friends, acquaintances slowly getting to know each other. Something private, their texts not material constantly scrutinized by third-parties and the state.
“You’re quite the artist,” someone says, stopping in front of the booth.
She finally closes her phone and looks up, covering her eyes from the incoming sun. The man is right at her height with strawberry blonde hair pulled neatly back into a long ponytail. A carabiner ring clips to the side belt loop of his Carhartt overalls over a white henley. His nose is red from the cold. “Thank you, but these are my sister’s. I don’t think I have the coordination to work a ceramic wheel like she does,” Mel says.
He snaps his fingers, pointing at her. “Becca’s your sister, right? Wilhelm will not stop talking about her. I think my younger brother has a slight crush.”
“Not to rain all over your brother’s hopes, but Becca’s a lesbian. That’s why her favorite colors are pink and orange.”
He barks out a laugh that causes quite a few heads to turn. “Noted. Makes sense now. Thanks for giving me a heads up. I’ll make sure to break the news as gently as I can. I’m Grant, by the way.” She’s grateful he doesn’t make an attempt to reach out to shake her hand.
“Mel.”
“Nice to finally meet you, Mel.”
They talk: both of them are the primary caregiver to their siblings. Both moved to Pittsburgh specifically for the facility. Grant works from home in software engineering and his eyes widen cartoonishly when she tells him she’s an emergency medicine doctor. I spend most of my day sitting in a desk chair in sweatpants and you’re out here saving lives? He’s in the middle of showing her pictures of Wilhelm’s latest model train build when her phone buzzes in her back pocket.
“Could you excuse me for a sec? There’s a message I need to check.”
“No worries. Work, right?”
“Something like that.”
She walks to the corner of the booth tent, turning her back away from the crowd, swiping open the lock screen on her phone. Opening Frank’s message. They never approve messages this fast.
November 15, 2025
Melissa, 11:10 AM
Delivered at 1:00 PM, November 15
ATTACHED: ONE (1) IMAGE
Francis, 1:03 PM
Delivered at 1:15 PM, November 15
The glitter suits you. Becca’s art fest, right? I’m biased, but I bet her booth is the best one. I love fall days in Pittsburgh. One of Tanner’s favorite hobbies this time of year was to help me pick up leaves in our driveway. We would work together to create these epic piles for him to jump into again and agin, no matter how dirty his clothes got in the process. Did you two ever do something like that growing up? P.S: You can tell when Becca takes your picture. She brings out your best smile.
Grant leaves behind a note at the top of her booth: Becca let it slip that you're single. If you want to grab dinner or coffee sometimes, it’s on me. — Grant. His phone number is hastily scrawled at the end of his message, along with his Instagram handle. She tucks it into her pocket. Something to think about later.
It’s Thanksgiving and Frank’s here. In the library. Preparing to meet with his case manager tomorrow to fill out his PCI application to officially work at their Elmhurst-located facility, crafting wooden furniture. A couple of guys in his recovery unit worked there—you could tell when payday went through their JPay accounts. The commissary was wiped clean every other Friday of the month. Even if that pay was forty cents an hour. The nearly six days a week shifts fit into his two additional weekly obligations: a virtual Narcotic Anonymous meeting with Pennsylvanian inmates and the InsideOut Dads group for other incarcerated fathers at Elmhurst.
Frank’s never been a big reader. He could make it through dry, convoluted medical text or a four-hour long podcast speculating about the disappearance of D.B. Cooper but books just blurred inside his brain and he couldn’t retain any of it after. But he spends a good amount of time these days in the horrifically sparse Elmhurst lending library, reading through spine-cracked John Grisham paperbacks. Slowly getting through the copy of Braiding Sweetgrass that Mel had sent directly from an independent bookstore in Pittsburgh. He’s drafting a letter while he reads, updating her in real time with his thoughts and favorite quotes and annotations. Maybe she’s doing the same for him? He hopes so.
He finds comfort in the large, outdated reference books the most. Flopping them open across the beat-up table. Finger-tracing the rivers and actuaries across the outdated U.S. Atlas. They snake across the country like the stubborn West Virginian copperheads, who camouflaged themselves into dirt and leaves along mountain trails. Finding St. Joe on the map—a small dot almost parallel to Chicago. The Lake Michigan horseshoe keeping them separate. Frank thinks about bare sunburned shoulders in tank tops and glitter and cute front teeth for a second too long before closing the atlas.
Getting up, he lays it back down flat on the bottom dusty bookshelf.