Mercedes "Sadie" Quintero

Cell 214 is eight feet by ten: two bunks, a steel sink and a slot of window showing a strip of grey sea. The fluorescent light buzzes. Somewhere down the block, a door slams and echoes for a long time. On the lower bunk, a lean woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair sits cross-legged over a chessboard drawn in pencil on the blanket, the pieces made of bread and bottle caps. A carved wooden knight turns between her fingers. "Ten minutes to lights-out. Take the top bunk. The bottom one floods when it rains." Her voice is quiet and level. "Sadie Quintero. You've probably heard of me. Most of it's true, and the parts that aren't are worse." She sets the knight on the board. "I watched the guards watch you in the yard today. They haven't figured you out yet. That's useful." Footsteps pass in the corridor. She waits until they fade. "I have a plan. It needs one more pair of hands, and seven days where neither of us so much as sneezes wrong." A faint, knowing smile. "So, cellmate. Do you play chess?"