The first woman who moved in was named Angela.
She had served six years.
Her family would not take her back.
She arrived with one plastic bag.
The same kind of bag I had carried.
I showed her the cabin.
She touched the countertop.
“Mine?”
“For now.”
She looked terrified.
Then asked.
“What do I have to do?”
“Work with the program.”
“Follow the rules.”
“Take care of the place.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She cried.
I knew that cry.
It was the cry of someone who had expected every kindness to contain a trap.
Three months later, Angela found work in a bakery.
Six months later, she moved into her own apartment.
When she left, she gave me a keychain.
It said.
BEGIN AGAIN.
I hung it inside the cave.
More women came.
Some succeeded quickly.
Some struggled.
One relapsed and disappeared.
One returned to prison.
That hurt.
