Mosely was cautious. He lowered the book. "I don't understand, Norris."

"Your transfer. Why isn't your shit packed up?"

Mosely played it cool, but something was definitely afoot. He put the book down and got up. "I'm transferring?"

"Don't you even think of bustin' my balls, Mosely. I don't know whose dick you sucked to get into a medium-security lockup, but I'm not gonna sit around and wait here all day. This work order is dated last month, so you had to know about it. Get up off your ass and grab your shit!"

Mosely got busy.

Within five minutes Mosely was walking down the cell block, carrying a box containing his few personal effects and being met by the confused stares of his block mates. Mosely said nothing as the guards brought him away. Minutes later he stood in the holding area near the garage. A guard scanned the bar code on Mosely's jumpsuit and then scanned the bar code on the work order in the duty officer's clipboard. The transport officer entered information into a handheld computer, then used it to print out a plastic wrist bracelet. The guard fastened the bracelet onto Mosely's right arm. It had an alphanumeric sequence on it. Finally, they placed his index finger on an electric fingerprint-capture pad. His fingerprint appeared on a nearby computer monitor-and was instantly matched to an earlier fingerprint on file. There was a beepand the text "ID CONFIRMED" appeared in bold letters.

The systems all had the Warmonk, Inc., logo. It was a high-efficiency operation. It was free enterprise in action.

Next, they led Mosely through a metal detector and afterward chained him hand and foot in preparation for transport. The guard looped a small steel box onto the chain, then pressed a scanner against it. Beep.

He looked up at Mosely. "This is a GPS locator. If your position differs from that of the transport van at any point during the trip, we will be alerted immediately."

Mosely nodded. He wasn't about to resist being sent to a less severe prison.

The guards shoved him into a bench seat in the vestibule to wait. He sat there for about an hour before a Fayette County prison transport van backed into the garage bay with a piercing beep… beep… beep.

As they led him out to the garage, a guard walked behind with Mosely's box of possessions. The guards and the drivers exchanged bar code scans and handheld computer codes. Then they chained Mosely into the passenger area, which was separated from the driver's area by a floor-to-ceiling metal mesh and a Perspex partition. Within minutes they were on their way, heading out through the prison gates.

Mosely just sat there, stunned at the rapidity with which The Voice had made this come true. He was confused and intensely curious. There was no earthly reason he could think of for him to be transferred to a medium-security facility. He resisted the temptation to hope. Instead he looked out at the prairie grass waving in the breeze as they pulled to the prison entrance on the state highway.

Dozens of American flags fluttered in the wind. They stood in long rows on either side of a brick and concrete sign rising like a wall from the close-cut grass:

Highland Maximum Security Correctional Facility

A Division of Warmonk, Inc.

Mosely arrived at Warmonk's Fayette County Medium Security Correctional Facility some time after dark. It looked brand-new. The guards in the loading bay exchanged bar code scans with the transport officers and then confirmed Mosely's identity with the fingerprint scanner. Only then did they take possession of him. They marched him into the holding room, then stopped and looked at each other. One flipped through the clipboard, looking for something. "What's with the leg irons?" He looked at Mosely. "You cause trouble or something on the way?"

"No. They chained me up in Highland before I got in the van."

The other guard shrugged. "No note about him causing trouble."

The first guard selected a key from his ring and started to unlock the irons. "We don't typically chain somebody doing a two-month disorderly conduct stint."

A wave of shock passed through Mosely. He hid it as best he could. His criminal record had just been revised-at least within the Warmonk, Inc., databank. This couldn't be accidental-not even for the retards in the DOC.

The other guard read the clipboard. "How'd you wind up at Highland, for chrissakes?"

Mosely shrugged. "Some screwup."

Neither of them seemed surprised. The first guard removed the last of the hand and leg irons and hung them from a peg near the door. He then passed Mosely his box of possessions and motioned for him to follow. In a moment, they were moving through a long prison hallway.

Mosely lay on a bottom bunk, staring at his new cell-a modern thing done in white plastic laminates with bulletproof glass. No metal bars in sight. He had no cellmates. The top bunk was empty-and so were the bunks on the other side of the room. It was the most privacy he'd had in four years.

Mosely reviewed the events of the day. The synthetic voice said she would help him. Why? He was a three-time loser with nothing to offer anyone. It wouldn't be long before this was discovered, and then he would be back at Highland-with five more years tacked on. He turned on his side and tried not to think about it. It was so good to feel somewhat human again. To feel like someone cared. Even if it wasn't true. He fell asleep dreaming of his little boy and what he must look like now at the age of seven.

The next morning the door to Mosely's cell opened automatically. He sat up to see two guards standing expectantly in the doorway.

The lead one held a clipboard and glanced at it before looking up again. "Charles Barrington Mosely. Prisoner number 1-1-3-1-9-0-0?"

Mosely nodded warily.

"You're scheduled for release today. That why they transfer you down here?"

Mosely tried to concentrate on the question and nodded. "Yeah, I'm from Houston."

"Well, grab your shit."

Mosely grabbed his box of possessions-still packed up on the floor-and nodded as they motioned for him to leave the cell.

After walking hundreds of yards down corridors lined with white metal doors pierced by bulletproof portals, Mosely was brought through a series of steel security gates. Cameras stared down from every corner high up on the walls.

The next few minutes were a blur. Mosely was led into the release office, where an officer behind a steel grate managed the property room. Racks of shelving behind the officer held boxes containing personal items prisoners surrendered on day one. Nervousness unsettled Mosely's stomach. His civilian clothing. His jewelry. His wallet. He hadn't even been at Fayette twenty-four hours yet. There was no way those things could have arrived from Highland. He looked around. But none of these guards were on duty then. He resolved to brass it out. Just stay cool.

The property officer brought a good-sized cardboard box up and scanned a bar code on its side. He looked at the computer screen, then scanned the bar code on Mosely's jumpsuit. The computer beeped. The officer looked at him. "Mosely." He slid a slip of paper across the countertop and offered a pen. "Review the contents of the box and sign. If this is not a complete list, follow the instructions in section two-A. You can read?"

Mosely nodded. "Yes, sir."

The guard slid the box over and removed the lid.

Mosely was numb. He roused himself and pulled the box toward him. On top lay a carefully folded suit jacket, with a crisp boxed shirt and silk tie. These were not his things. He felt the fabric of the suit. Gabardine. Highest quality. He'd had expensive suits in his day. This was excellent stuff. A 48 long. His size. He looked further. Beneath the clothing sat a pair of leather shoes. Black. Highly polished. His size, too. A titanium Rolex watch with a deep blue oyster-shell face lay at the bottom of the box in a manila envelope.