Page 64 of Guess Again

Boscobel, Wisconsin Monday, August 4, 2025

FRANCIS LAY ON HIS BED WITH HIS HANDS BEHIND HIS HEAD AND LEGS crossed.

He’d been awake since 4:00 a.m.

He looked around the cell and took inventory of his meager belongings.

His entire life consisted of a single, tattered paperback novel, a week-old newspaper, and three pieces of prison stationery.

But all of that was about to change.

The muted buzz of his prison cell door unlocking echoed through the hollow space where he had spent the last many years of his life.

He quickly sat up on his bed.

“Stand up,”

a guard said through the intercom system.

“Kneel in the corner and put your hands behind your back.”

It was the first time Francis was happy to go through the rigmarole.

He knew today would be the last time he’d have to tolerate such a demeaning task as kneeling in the corner of a room.

He did as instructed and placed his hands behind his back.

A guard entered the cell and handcuffed him.

The guard leaned over his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

“Don’t know who you serviced to pull this off, but your ticket somehow got stamped for Columbia.”

The guard took him by the elbow and lifted him to his feet.

“Let’s go.

Gotta get you into the transport suit.”

Francis allowed the guard to lead him out of the cell and through the prison.

He felt the eyes of the other inmates as they watched through the slatted glass windows of their cell doors.

Poor bastards, Francis thought.

They had no freedom and no hope of ever acquiring it.

Hope had kept him alive all these years.

Hope and the determination to think his way out of this place.

Boscobel was designed to ruin both the mind and the spirit, but Francis had found a way to stay sharp and active. Hope had been his savior to this point. He had faith that the one person he trusted would get him through this day and beyond.

When they reached the staging area, three additional guards waited for him.

The red transport suit hung on a heavy-duty rack.

Made of reinforced foam-dipped neoprene, the suit protected both the inmate being transferred and the guards who were transferring him.

Once the suit was in place, Francis would barely be able to move.

It consisted of several pieces, each of which was secured by a separate locking mechanism. A padded sleeve was fastened around each of his arms and legs. A vest was tightened around his chest to the degree that it restricted his breathing. And finally, a red, padded helmet with a single horizontal slot for his eyes was placed over his head.

“Looks like the Michelin Man,”

one of the guards said before they all laughed.

Francis heard a door hiss open, and the guards quickly went silent.

He was unable to move, and the helmet restricted his vision, so all he was able to do was stand and wait.

Finally, from his right field of vision a face emerged.

It was Andre Monroe.

The head guard smiled as he stared at Francis.

“Time to hit the road, big boy.

I’ve been assigned to take you to Columbia.”

Monroe lowered his voice.

“Don’t worry, though.

I called my buddies up in Portage to let them know how accommodating you are to the guards, especially late at night.

You’re going to be a big hit, and my friends can’t wait for you to arrive.”

Francis said nothing.

He wouldn’t give the man any reason to impede the transfer.

“I’ve got some bigwig here who says he needs to talk with you before the transfer.

He’s from the governor’s office or some shit.

You talk to him here and then we move.”

Monroe turned his head and whistled.

Francis heard the door hiss open again, followed by slow and methodical footsteps, and then Ethan Hall’s face came into view through the eye slot of the transport helmet.

For the first time in days, Francis allowed himself to smile.