What We Keep

The new inmate wouldn't stop staring at Carter's shadow.

"Problem, inmate?" Carter kept his voice flat. Professional. Three years at Blackstone Correctional had taught him that the first day was when they tested you.

"Your shadow's wrong." The inmate, Brennan, Thomas, fresh transfer from county, tilted his head. "It's not doing what you're doing."

Carter didn't look down. You never looked where they wanted you to look. "Face forward. Arms out for the search."

But Brennan kept staring at the floor behind Carter. "It's like... delayed. You moved your hand just now but your shadow took half a second to catch up."

"I said face forward."

"Jesus Christ, it did it again." Brennan was looking around intake now, eyes tracking the other guards. "Yours is the only one that's screwed up."

Rodriguez stepped over. "This one giving you trouble?"

"Look at his shadow," Brennan said to him. "Look at it right now. Tell me it's copying him in real time."

Rodriguez's baton was out before Carter could intervene. Not striking. Just present. "Inmate, you're going to want to stop talking."

"Why can't you see it?" Brennan's voice cracked. "It's wrong. His shadow is delayed. It's like—"

Rodriguez's baton connected with Brennan's kidney. Not hard enough to cause damage. Just enough to drop him.

"Get him to processing," Rodriguez said. "They'll sort him out."

Carter hauled Brennan to his feet. The inmate was gasping, but he managed to whisper: "Check your shadow. When you're alone. Check it."

Carter didn't check. Not at first.

You heard all kinds of crazy shit during intake. Inmates claimed the food was poisoned. That the walls moved at night. That their cells were moving. Brennan was just another paranoid transfer trying to get into Carter's head.

But during his lunch break, Carter found himself in the bathroom. Alone. He lifted his hand.

His shadow lifted its hand.

Half a second later.

Carter dropped his hand. The shadow kept its hand up for a millisecond too long, then dropped it.

"Fuck."

He tried again. Stepped left. His shadow moved, but it was more of a reaction. He jumped. His shadow waited, then jumped.

Almost half a second. Every time. Like it was on a delay.

Carter walked back through the guard station, watching his shadow in his peripheral vision. Following him. Always delayed. How had he never noticed?

Rodriguez was at the desk. Carter watched Rodriguez's shadow. Perfect synchronization. Hand up, shadow up. No delay.

"You okay?" Rodriguez asked.

"That new inmate. Brennan. What happened to him?"

"Cell block D. Why?"

"Just wondering."

Carter spent the rest of his shift watching shadows. Every guard shadow moved perfectly. Perfect synchronization.

Except his.

Forty-two guards with normal shadows.

Carter was the forty-third guard. The only one whose shadow couldn't keep up.

And the inmates? The inmates walked through corridors with recessed lighting. Through common areas with overhead fixtures. Through cells with ambient illumination.

Blackstone's architecture was famous for it. Modern. Humane. The kind of lighting design that won awards. No harsh shadows. No dark corners. Everything visible and monitored.

The inmates moved through the prison cleanly. Efficiently.

The architecture made sure of it.

That night, Carter couldn't stop testing it. In his quarters, he'd move suddenly. Watch the delay. Half a second. Always half a second.

He tried to remember when it started. Had his shadow always been like this? He thought back to last week. Last month. Last year.

Nothing. He couldn't remember ever looking at his own shadow. Really looking at it.

Three years at Blackstone and he'd never once checked if his shadow was working right.

The next morning, Carter went to the vault. Three floors underground where they kept the collected shadows. Every inmate who entered Blackstone had their shadow separated and contained. Standard protocol for violent offenders.

He needed to see them. Needed to understand.

The vault was always empty during morning shift.

He used his override code. Walked through rows of containers. Each one holding a shadow that had been separated from its owner. Nine hundred and thirty-seven shadows. All accounted for.

Carter stopped at container 447-A. Dixon's shadow. Collected two years ago when Dixon arrived for his ten-year sentence. Armed robbery. Violence. The kind of prisoner whose shadow needed to be contained.

Inside the glass, a shadow stood there. Dark. Visible. Male form, Dixon's height and build.

Carter waved at it.

The shadow didn't move. Just stood there. Frozen. Like a photograph.

Carter moved to the next container. 223-B. Williams. Aggravated assault. Eight years.

Another shadow inside. Motionless. Perfectly still.

Carter walked faster. Checking container after container. All of them had shadows visible inside the glass. All of them frozen. Not responding to anything.

Then Carter reached container 1138-A.

The label read: THOMPSON, DAVID - INMATE #1138.

Just another inmate name he didn't recognize.

Inside the container, a shadow sat on the floor. Head down. Shoulders slumped.

And it was moving. Breathing. Real.

Carter lifted his hand slowly.

The shadow's head snapped up. It saw him.

Then it stood and walked to the glass. Pressed its palms against it.

And copied Carter's movement perfectly. No delay.

Carter jumped back. The shadow jumped back.

He waved. It waved.

Why was this inmate's shadow mirroring him? That didn't make sense. Shadows were tied to their people. This one should respond to whoever this Thompson person was, not to Carter.

Carter's hands were shaking. He looked at the container more closely. Saw scratches on the outside of the glass. Near the bottom.

Tally marks. Forty-seven of them.

No words. Just marks. Someone keeping count.

His radio crackled. "Hayes, you down in the vault?"

Carter grabbed his radio. "Yeah. Just doing a check."

"Need you back up here. We got a situation in D block."

"On my way."

Carter looked at his shadow in the container. It pointed at the tally marks. Then pointed at Carter's multi-tool.

Add another mark.

Carter pulled out the tool. Carved one more line into the glass.

Forty-eight.

The shadow nodded. Backed away from the glass.

Carter ran through the aisles. Had to check. Had to see if there were others.

Container 0847-B.

MARTINEZ, LUIS - INMATE #0847.

Inside, a shadow paced. Violent. Aggressive. It slammed its fists against the glass over and over. Then it saw Carter and charged the glass like it wanted to break through.

The shadow moved like Rodriguez. Had his build. His aggressive energy.

Strange.

"Hayes! Now!" His radio again.

Carter ran for the elevator. His mind spinning.

The inmates' shadows were frozen. Except for some.

Some containers had moving shadows. One mirrored him perfectly. Container 1138-A. Thompson, David.

Another moved like Rodriguez. Container 0847-B. Martinez, Luis.

Names he didn't recognize. But shadows he did.

It didn't make sense.

He didn't have time to process it. Had to get upstairs. Had to deal with D block.

But he'd come back. He'd figure this out.

The situation in D block was nothing. An inmate claimed his cell door was stuck. It wasn't. Standard attention-seeking behavior.

Carter went through the motions. Wrote it up. Tried to act normal.

But he kept thinking about the vault. About his shadow in the glass. About the forty-eight tally marks.

During his break, Carter made his way to the admin hallway. The one place he wasn't supposed to be during shift.

"Forgot my timesheet," he told the guard at the desk. "Just need to grab it."

The guard waved him through.

Carter pulled up his own file on the terminal.

HAYES, CARTER - CORRECTIONAL OFFICER START DATE: November 12, 2022 CLEARANCE: Level 3

His guard file. Everything looked normal.

Then he typed in that container number. Container 1138-A.

THOMPSON, DAVID - INMATE #1138 CRIME: First-degree murder SENTENCE: Life without parole INTAKE: November 12, 2019

Carter clicked on the file. A photo loaded. Intake photo from 2019.

His face stared back at him.

Younger. Different haircut. But unmistakably him.

Not Carter Hayes. David Thompson.

He scrolled through the case details. The victim. Jennifer Thompson. His wife.

The crime scene photos showed what he'd done to her.

He felt nothing looking at them. No memory. No recognition. Just documentation of something David Thompson had done.

Something he had done.

The shadow in container 1138-A. That was his real shadow. Trapped under his real name while he walked around as Carter Hayes.

He searched for the other container. The one with the violent shadow.

MARTINEZ, LUIS - INMATE #0847 CRIME: Multiple homicide SENTENCE: Life without parole
INTAKE: April 3, 2018

He pulled up the photo.

Rodriguez's face.

Not Rodriguez. Luis Martinez.

"Hayes?" A voice behind him. "What are you doing in here?"

Carter closed the files. Turned. One of the admin staff. "Just checking my timesheet. Got confused about my hours."

The woman looked at him for a long moment. "You should head back to your post."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Carter walked back through the corridors. But he took a wrong turn. He was distracted. Found himself near the east wing. Near a door he'd never used before.

He pushed through it.

And found himself outside. In the rec yard.

Inmates were scattered across the concrete. Standing in the June sun. Playing cards at metal tables. Talking in small groups.

All of them casting shadows. Normal shadows that moved exactly as they moved. Shadows that had never been separated. Had never been contained.

They saw him. Saw him seeing their shadows.

Most of them looked away quickly. Went back to their cards. Their conversations. Playing their roles.

They were terrified.

But Brennan didn't look away.

Brennan stood by the fence. His shadow stretched long on the concrete beside him.

Brennan smiled.

The kind of smile that said: You figured it out.

The kind of smile that said: Enjoy it while it lasts.

Carter looked at his own delayed shadow on the concrete. At the shadow that couldn't quite keep up.

"Hayes!" Rodriguez's voice from inside. "What the hell are you doing out there? You trying to get yourself killed?"

Carter walked back inside. Let the door close behind him.

That night, three men came to his quarters.

"Time for your evaluation, Hayes."

Carter didn't resist. Didn't ask questions.

Carter Hayes had been a guard at Blackstone Correctional for three years. He stood at his post, watching the new intake line.

"Problem, inmate?"

The inmate—Garrison, Kyle, fresh transfer from county—was staring at Carter.

"Shit," Garrison said. "Aren't you that guy who used his shadow to kill his wife?"

Carter didn't look down. You never looked where they wanted you to look.

"Face forward. Arms out for the search."

Rodriguez stepped over, baton already in hand.

And somewhere in the vault, three floors down, Carter's real shadow sat in container 1138-A. Behind glass scratched with forty-eight tally marks.

Waiting.

Waiting for Carter to figure it out again.

Waiting for him to come downstairs and carve the forty-ninth mark.

Hoping that this time they could get back to playing their game.