Being a smart-ass was probably not a good idea. Sage wanted to ask why he was lying in his bunk, then, but he had to bite his tongue. “You done staring?” the guy said, without opening his eyes. He was probably around thirty, maybe thirty-five at most. He looked almost Hispanic, but not quite. Dark, slightly curly hair, crooked nose, thick eyebrows, naturally tanned skin. The guy was lying on the bottom bunk, his eyes closed, so Sage took the opportunity to study him. The door closed and locked behind him with a loud and somehow unsympathetic click. He’d be sharing his cell with someone who was most likely stronger, tougher, and meaner than he was-with a real criminal. When he got out of here, he would never, ever get drunk again-if he got out of here at all. Truth be told, Sage was completely terrified, and once again, he wanted to kick himself for getting drunk and ending up in this mess. He wasn’t exactly skinny and short-he was taller than average, and he had some decent muscles-but he was nowhere as big as some of those guys. He hoped it wasn’t obvious how scared he was. They were shouting obscenities that made his stomach twist into knots and bile rise to his throat. He pushed the thought away, trying to ignore the other prisoners banging against the bars and leering as he walked by.

She had looked so small and old all of a sudden, and it was his fault.

Sage swallowed, remembering his mom’s crushed expression. Well, he did, and Laura-his girlfriend-did too, and his mom had cried when the sentence was read out. It had been an accident, but no one cared. He was a criminal now, after having been sentenced to a year in prison for driving under the influence and injuring another person. In 2020, the Last American to Receive a Civil War Pension has Died

Straight Boy by Alessandra Hazard