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She seemed at ease with her cage, the barbed wire and tall fences surrounding the women’s prison.
I felt relaxed, too.
Maybe I should have been more nervous, sitting across from a convicted first-degree murderer.
On that crisp November day, however, I was more worried about my frozen fingertips, hanging onto that scribbling pencil for dear life.
It’s hard to translate someone’s life story burning in your ears when your numb hands refuse to cooperate.
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