Saints in a Chip

Brandon had been queuing for too long, the anticipation gnawing at him. He just needed to make a quick call. All prisoners had the right to one call a day for ten minutes, but the clock was ticking, and he felt the pressure mounting. He kept his head low, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself, aware that any sudden movement could attract unwanted eyes.

“Next!” the guard barked.

The queue was still long, and the hours seemed to slip away like grains of sand. Brandon could feel the heat of the sun intensifying as it reached its zenith, shrinking the shadows across the cold concrete floor of the phone booth area. He knew that when the clock struck noon, the booths would close until the next day, and he couldn’t let that happen without talking to his little girl.

Without realising it, he was somewhat praying, though he wasn't sure to whom. “Please, let me talk with my little light,” he whispered under his breath. “Let me talk, just one minute.”

“Next!” the guard barked again, and Brandon's heart raced at the sound. He watched another prisoner step up and take the place he desperately wanted.

As he stood there, waiting, he couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness nibbling at him. Each tick of the clock echoed in his mind, reminding him that time was running out. He could only imagine how his daughter was coping without him, how she must be feeling so lost and confused.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he was called forward. “You!” the guard shouted, pointing at him. “Get over here!”

It was finally his turn. He quickly cleaned the sweat from his palms on his orange jumpsuit, the fabric rough against his skin, and placed a plastic coin into the phone. The rattling clink echoed in the small booth, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“Paediatrics Hospital of Saint Francis, how may I help you?”

“My name is Brandon Smith. I wanted to talk with my daughter, Luci Smith; she is in the oncology department.” His voice trembled slightly.

“Just a minute, connecting you with the right department,” the operator replied, and the line went quiet.

He leaned against the booth, eyes closed, imagining his little girl’s face—the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, her laughter like music to his ears. He couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him; he just wanted to hear her voice, to know she was alright.

After what felt like an agonising wait, the line clicked again, and a new voice emerged. “Oncology department. This is Nurse Rita. How can I assist you?”

Brandon swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I need to speak to my daughter, Luci Smith. Could you please… could you please call her? Tell her daddy is on the phone?”

“One moment, please,” the nurse said.

Brandon gripped the receiver tighter, pure, raw anxiety flooding through him. What if something had happened? What if he couldn’t talk to her? He pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the sound of the waiting music that started playing, a soft, monotonous lift’s tune.

He glanced back at the queue behind him, the faces of other prisoners blurring into one another as he tried to calm his nerves. He had the right to ten minutes—ten precious minutes to speak with his little girl, who was likely fighting for her life, connected to machines in a sterile room while he was here, locked in a prison.

“Hi? Mr. Smith?” a voice broke through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

“Yes?”

“We do not have a patient named Luci Smith. You might have called the wrong hospital.”

“No, no! I took her to the hospital myself!” Brandon insisted, panic rising in his chest. “She is 8 years old, she is black like me… and she likes pink. Lady, she likes pink! Please, let me talk with my little girl.”

“I am so sorry, but we have no record of—”

Brandon interrupted, desperation leaking into his voice. “You have to have her! She’s been in treatment for APL! Please, I need to speak to someone who can help me.”

He felt the heat rising in his cheeks as frustration and fear surged through him. This was his only chance to connect with her, and now it felt like slipping through his fingers.

“Mr. Smith, I understand this is difficult, but I don't have any—"

The guard dropped the call after ten minutes. “Next!” he shouted, shoving Brandon aside to make room for the next inmate.

He felt like the world had fallen on his shoulders, exasperation crushing him as he stumbled back. Instead of heading to the cantine for a brief escape, he turned and walked slowly to his cell, the echo of his footsteps ringing hollow in the hallway.

Tomorrow would bring another chance to connect and finally talk to Luci. But a gnawing fear dug deep into his head. What if she had died? What if he couldn’t say goodbye? The thought churned in his stomach.

As he reached his cell, he leaned against the cold metal bars, closing his eyes to ward off the wave of emotions that was threatening to crash over him.

A clang on the bars snapped him out of his thoughts. A guard passed his baton along the metal, the sound sharp and jarring. “Smith, you have a visitor!”

Brandon's awareness jolted suddenly in surprise. “A visitor?”

He turned to see the guard motioning for him to step forward while, on his side, a flurry of ideas flashed through his head as he followed the guard down the corridor. Who could it be? Would it be someone from the outside, or was it another inmate? A pro bono lawyer. A friend? He had no idea.

The guard led him to a small, cold, sterile visitation room with a glass partition separating the inmates from their visitors. Brandon entered and sat as he glanced around for any familiar face.

When the door swung open, he saw a sight that took his breath away.

A woman entered the room, shrouded from head to toe. She wore a long trench coat and a scarf over her head and shoulders, partially obscuring her face. As she settled into her chair, Brandon noticed the large curve of her belly—she was pregnant.

She removed the breathing mask and let it drop to her neck. “Hi,” she said with a warm calmness as she lifted the phone from her side.

Brandon lifted his receiver, feeling unease. “Who are you?” he asked, wary but intrigued.

“I’m a friend,” she replied.

“What’s going on?” he pressed, trying to glean any information. “Are you here to help me? Are you a lawyer?”

"I'm not a lawyer. I'm a friend," she repeated. "And right now, that’s all you need, friends."

Brandon frowned, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “A friend? How can you be a friend if you just show up out of nowhere? You have to know how strange this all sounds.”

“Come as you are, as you were. As I want you to be. As a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy. Take your time. Hurry up. The choice is yours, don’t be late. Take a rest as a friend, as an old memory.”

The pregnant woman murmured the words almost as if they were a prayer, her voice soothing as a lullaby. Brandon’s brow furrowed in confusion as he recognised the lyrics, a song from the 1990s that echoed in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite recall the band's name. Yet, it was on the tip of his tongue.

The way she emphasised the word “friend” made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was as if she were using a secret code, a connotation that only he understood. “What are you doing?”

“Your friends sent me to give you an album. You like music, right? Old classics from the 90s? You’ve been seeking it for your little girl. Lucy? Right? That’s her name... You were looking for a CD to burn, and that's why you are here, Brandon?”

His breath caught in his throat. “You know Luci?” he pressed, leaning forward. “What do you mean an album?”

Brandon held the telephone firmly to his ear as if pressing it tighter against his head would help him better comprehend what the woman was saying. But the more she spoke, the more his mind raced with questions and doubts. How did she know Luci's name? Was Luci in any kind of danger?

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, his questions spilling out in a rush. His voice was strained but steady, fighting against the rising panic that threatened to engulf him. “Who sent you?”

The woman met his gaze through the glass partition, her expression calm yet enigmatic. "I told you, friends."

The woman placed the phone down on the table and rummaged through her purse. Brandon watched intently, curiosity and anxiety bubbling all in one within him. She finally removed a plastic square case from her purse and held it up for him to see.

The cover depicted a naked baby swimming underwater, reaching out toward a dollar bill that hung just out of reach. The word “Nirvana” appeared in a simple, bold font at the top.

She opened the case to reveal a CD inside, its surface marked with the words "Nirvana 2.0" scrawled in black marker.

“Who are you? Where is Lucy?” Brandon demanded, his heart racing as anxiety twisted in his gut. “How did you find my code? Did Lucy get in? Did she find Nirvana? Where is my daughter?”

The woman picked up the phone again. “Hi, Lucy is fine. She is fine, Brandon, I promise.”

“Did she leave? Is she…?” His voice caught in his throat, fear threatening to overwhelm him.

“Not yet, but she is connected. At least she has more time before she…”

“...before she eventually dies…” he finished, dread creeping in. “But she is in.”

“She is in,” the woman confirmed.

“Who are you?”

In response, she removed her scarf, revealing a bald head that shone under the room's fluorescent lights. Brandon felt a jolt of recognition, memories of rumours and urban tales flooding back as he recalled them.

She placed her free hand over the glass, and Brandon's eyes widened as he instinctively put his hand over hers, noticing her four fingers. A rush of recognition and disbelief flooded through him. They were real.

“I’m Marta,” she said softly, her gaze piercing his eyes. “A friend.”

“Are you one of them, Marta? Did you come from the stars to save my little Lucy?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Born and raised on Earth,” she replied. "Sorry."

“Thank you! Thank you so much for being a friend.”

Brandon erupted suddenly into a nervous chuckle that quickly morphed into louder laughter, echoing in the room. “I knew it! I knew those motherfuckers lied to us! I knew it!” His shouts were a symbiosis of relief and anger as the weight of the truth finally lifted from his shoulders.

“Smith, cut it out!” a guard barked, stepping over with a menacing glare. He grabbed Brandon by the arm, shoving him out of the chair and dragging him toward the door.

Brandon couldn’t stop laughing, the absurdity of it all flooding his senses. “I knew it! They thought they could keep us blind, but look at me! I see! And the world will see it, too!”

The guard tightened his grip. “Shut up, or I’ll put you in solitary. You don’t want that, buddy!”

Brandon's laughter faded into breathless gasps as they moved through the door.

Meanwhile, Marta watched from the room. She quickly placed her scarf back over her head, concealing her baldness, and tucked the CD case into her purse. Her eyes darted around the room as she held her belly protectively.