It was a winter morning in 2013 when I heard my name blasting from the prison loudspeaker. I was walking back to my dorm from chow, hamburger and fries, which is what is they served for lunch every Thursday at the federal prison in Oklahoma where I was in my 15th year of a life sentence for selling crack cocaine. But I was in no rush to find out why my name was called. The last time that happened, I learned that my brother had been murdered. Each step I took brought me closer to a feeling of terror.

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