WEDNESDAY, MARCH 27
11 days left

Today at work we're conducting a phone marathon for the town of Langston. Every year at the end of March, Langston throws a carnival in the backyard of the middle school to raise money. (Mostly for the basketball program, but the Langston Public School District puts on a good face and claims they are using the money to beef up our science and math programs.) They always cart in a few low-grade rides—a Ferris wheel and spinning teacups—set up concession stands that sell sticky cotton candy and extra-sugary sodas, and have the cheer team perform a few risqué dance routines. The creepy middle aged men of Langston really love the Spring Carnival.
I pick up the phone's receiver and dial the next number on my call log: John Gordon, who lives at 415 Mound Street. Maybe John is the demographic that will already be at the Spring Carnival, and so he won't even need reminding. It rings twice before John picks up. No such luck.
"Hello?" His accent is spot-on Kentucky.
"Hello, Mr. Gordon," I say. "My name is Taylor, and I'm calling from Tucker's Marketing Concepts on behalf of the city of Langston."
"Yes?" He sounds a little impatient, but he's less irate than the usual voice I find on the other end of the phone.
"As you may know, the city is hosting its annual Spring Carnival." I deliver my spiel about how the proceeds raised by the carnival provide invaluable funds for Langston's schools. I gush about the cheerleaders' upcoming performances and how fun and safe (yeah, right) the Ferris wheel is. I end with the mandated final line, "It's a great time for people of all ages. A real family-friendly event." I obviously don't mention that the cheerleaders normally wear leopard-print bikini tops and dance around outside, even though it's barely over fifty degrees.
There's silence on the other end of the phone.
"Mr. Gordon?"
"Yeah, I know the Spring Carnival," he says. "My family's planning to go tomorrow afternoon."
"Great. Thank you, Mr. Gordon." The one thing that can be said for the people of Langston is that they tend to show up for Langston.
Today at work, I'm more focused than usual. I want to get through my call log. Really, I just want my shift to be over. I've recently noticed that if I actually work at work, the time goes by faster. After I've called about six people in a row, I look over at Laura. Her brow is furrowed and she keeps blinking.
"What?" I ask, and reach for the phone receiver to dial my next number.
"You're just weird today." She gets up and heads to the coffee maker. "It's almost like you're happy. Did you finally meet someone?"
I laugh and it comes out as a dry rattle. Happy? The sad thing is, she's not that far off base. I did meet someone. But not in the way she thinks. "It's weird that I'm working?"
She nods. "Very weird."
"Just trying to make you proud, Laura." I give her a fake salute and she shakes her head.
Two minutes before my shift ends, I open up the internet browser. I haven't goofed around all day, so I feel like I've totally earned this free time. I search the web for McGreavy Correctional Facility's phone number. It takes me a minute, but eventually I find the number I'm looking for. I scribble it down on the legal notepad next to my desk and then rip the paper off the pad and fold it up and slide it into my pocket.
I get up out of my seat and fling my backpack over my shoulders. On my way out, I wave to Mr. Damon . He looks like he might have a heart attack.
"Bye, Taylor," he says weakly.
Like Laura pointed out, I know I seem to be in a better mood, but I'm not sure if I'm really in a better mood or if it's a trick my mind is playing on me. Like I know it's all going to be over soon so there's no need to be anxious about things anymore. I have everything planned out. I know exactly how I want to spend my last days, and that sense of purpose is comforting.

I toss my backpack into the passenger seat and then climb into the front seat. I unzip the front pocket of my backpack and grab my cell phone. I pull the folded notepad sheet out of my pocket. I take a deep breath and then dial the number.
I call unknown numbers all the time at work so this shouldn't make me nervous, but I feel my heart racing and so I turn on the classical radio station ever so slightly. Bach's Mass in B Minor pours out of the speakers, and as I listen to the music, it feels like someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. I adjust the volume so it's not too loud in case someone at McGreavy Correctional Facility eventually decides to answer the phone.
Kicking my legs up on the dashboard, I fold the driver's seat back so I can lie flat. I'm humming along with the music, tapping my fingers against the torn fabric seat, when I'm startled by a voice on the other end.
"This is Tom. How can I help you?"
I lurch forward in my seat. "Is this McGreavy Correctional Facility?"
"Yes," he says with an aggravated sigh.
"I'm calling because I'm looking for information on how I can visit my father."
"Huh?"
"My father. He's an . . ." I search for the word. "Inmate there."
"Ah," Tom says. I guess Tom is a man of one-syllable answers. "Lemme transfer you over to Visiting."
Before I can say anything, the phone line goes blank and the cheesy elevator holding music comes back on. I turn the volume up on my car radio.
After not too long, a new voice greets me. "This is Bob." McGreavy Correctional Facility employees aren't only into one-syllable answers, they're also into one-syllable names.
"Hi, Bob," I say, trying to seem friendly so he'll help me. "I was calling to get some information on how I can visit my dad."
"Your dad's locked up here?"
"Yeah," I say, trying to sound like it's no big deal, like I'm down with the prison system or something.
"And you're on the list?"
"What?"
"His visiting list. If you're his daughter, you should be on the list."
I gulp. "I don't know if I'm on the list." Mom's never let me visit Dad. Not even once.
"Well, if you aren't on the list, there's nothing I can do to help you. But my guess would be that you're on it. When people get locked up, they tend to put their immediate family on the list as a default. In case any of them ever want to visit."
"Okay," I say slowly. "So I just show up?"
He makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "Yeah. You just show up during visiting hours. It's a first-come, first-serve basis. If all the visiting booths are filled when you get here, you'll have to get on the waiting list. And I can't make any guarantees about the waiting list."
So many lists. "When are visiting hours?"
"Girl," Bob says, and I can practically hear him shaking his head. "All this info is on our web page. But because I like you, I'll tell you."
Looks like the friendliness paid off. "Thank you so much, Bob."
"So Tuesday through Saturday we have visiting hours. We have a morning session that runs ten a.m. to twelve p.m. And an afternoon session that runs one p.m. to four p.m. And want a tip?"
"I'd love one, Bob."
"Try to get here as early as you can. You'll have better luck that way. System can get jammed toward the end of the day."
"I really appreciate it. I'll see you Saturday."
"Yeah, okay." Bob hangs up first.
I adjust my car seat so I can sit straight up, but I don't drive away from DMC. My head feels crowded and overwhelmed with competing thoughts. I cradle it in my hands and take deep breaths. After a few minutes, I pick up my phone again and call Harry. I know it's stupid, but I can't help myself. I want to share my thoughts with someone, and he's the only person I could possibly talk to. I guess this is another reason why people have Suicide Partners. They come in handy.
"Hey," Harry says.
"Hey, what are you up to?"
No answer.
"Just hanging out in your room?" I prompt.
"What else would I be doing?"
"I don't know. Playing basketball."
I imagine him glaring at me. Him, flopped on his back on the cotton comforter, his green eyes narrowed, a pencil in his hand, balancing a sketch pad against his knees. I picture Captain Nemo telling him to chill out and that only making him angrier. I guess I laugh because Harry says, "Please cut it out."
"Okay, I'll stop. I promise," I say quickly.
"You keep saying that and you don't stop. It's starting to get really annoying."
I dig my fingernails into the car's seat. I don't want to be annoying to Harry. I know I shouldn't care what I am to him. But a small part of me kind of does.
"Sorry," Harry says in a low voice. "I shouldn't have said that."
"No, it's okay. I deserved it."
"No you didn't."
I pause for a moment. The line is silent and all I can hear is his shallow breath. I want to ask if he's drawing, but I don't. "Can I come pick you up?"
"Why would you do that?"
I inhale sharply and try to come up with an excuse to see him. My mind swirls and I remember all my phone calls from today. "I was thinking we could go to the Langston Spring Carnival."
"Have you gone completely insane?"
"Is that a yes?" I tease, and then quickly correct my tone. "I mean, you are the one who said that it was going to be easier for you to sneak away on the seventh if your mom really believed we were close friends."
"True, but I still don't get why you want to go to the carnival."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I say, and hang up.
And he's right. By all standards, by my own standards, I should want to avoid the carnival. But the closer we get to April 7, the more reckless I feel.
The truth is, the Spring Carnival is one of the last places I can remember being truly happy. I don't know how old I was when I first realized that the black slug inside of me would inevitably eat any and every positive thought of mine. But I do know that the last time I was at the carnival, my little hand interlocked with my dad's, my happiness didn't disappear.
It stayed.