The guard walked over and touched my shoulder.

“Time’s up, DeLuca,” he said.

I hung up the receiver.

I stood up, my joints cracking in the cold room.

I followed the guard back through the gates.

The metal doors locked behind me with a loud, final thud.

I walked back to my cell and sat on the edge of my cot.

I did not open the envelope under my bed.

I did not need to.

I had the memory of her hand against the glass.

I looked out the narrow window at the gray sky.

The snow had stopped, and a small patch of blue was showing through the clouds.

I was a prisoner, and I would be one for a long time.

But my daughter was free.

And that was a price I would pay every single day.