This post warmed my heart. This is beautiful.


“I’m not putting on your socks, chica.” I said sharply, “You’re seven months pregnant. It. Is. Not. Happening.

“But you’re freezing. Your lips are blue, and the deputies aren’t gonna bring you another pair. Take. My. Socks.” She was standing barefoot, staring at me huddled in bed, holding her socks in her jail-tattooed hand.

“It’s my fault,” I soothed her, “I should have made sure there weren’t holes in them during clothing exchange. I’ll figure it out tomorrow. It’s just as cold for you in here. Put your socks on, chica. For the baby.”

She made a face at me, because I pulled the baby card, but obliged– sitting on her bunk, stretching past her belly to pull them up. I jumped down from my bunk to help and she admonished me.

“You’re going to ruin your bladder if you do that this whole time. It’s gonna pop…

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