It was good to be out. Mallory repeated the words in her head, letting them become her own little mantra as she twirled her unlit cigarette through her fingers. She was happy to be out. So why, after four days outside Phoenix’s fine Federal Correctional Institution, did freedom feel like a noose? There were familiar faces inside that bar — some she hadn’t seen in three years. They could wait three more minutes, she justified. Three more minutes to let her own anxieties wash over her like a tide, and then recede. Finally fishing a lighter from her pocket, the Jericho native stopped using the already bent cigarette as just another item to fidget with, and inhaled. There was something almost calming about the way the music would crescendo from the bar every few minutes, sound fading as the heavy door slammed shut again. When she heard the soft crunch of gravel, blue eyes barely flickered up before she spoke. “Sounds like a hell of a party.” She mused half-heartedly, taking one last deep breath. Three minutes.
