Barack’s first month in prison is a series of badly framed snapshots, blurry and out of focus and only half-remembered. He remembers detoxing, sweating through the night, biting bloody through his lower lip because he’s not crying out, not here. But fuck it hurts, and it hurts bad, and he’s this close to breaking down and trading something-- anything-- for a fix when suddenly, everything snaps into focus.

“Hey, kid. Yo, motherfucking Dumbo. You deaf or some shit?” The voice is sharp, curious if not a little belligerent.

Barack opens his eyes. Over him, hands on hips and outline black and hazy in the harsh light of the yard, stands another prisoner.

“Mmm?” Inquisitive, non-confrontational is the way to go. Barack’s not a fighter. Never has been.

“You’re from Chicago.” It’s not a question. “So’m I. Come on, you should meet a couple people.”

When Obama takes the hand-- with a half missing middle finger-- he has no idea he’s just irreversibly altered the trajectory of his life. He’ll figure it out later, but now he’s just a too-skinny ex-junkie taking the battered hand of another anonymous con.


That would be a snippet.