In the morning. “Hey, wake up. Go clean the toilets.” Mabel felt the rough shove of a fellow inmate against her shoulder. Her body was cold and wracked with pain, leaving her no strength to respond. “Gosh! She’s dead!” The inmate screamed in panic. After the brutal ordeal from the night before, the women had assumed Mabel didn’t survive. That couldn’t happen—not here. Hurting Mabel was one thing, but killing her was a risk none of them wanted to take. Another inmate rushed over and pressed her fingers under Mabel’s nose. After a while, she yelled, “Shut up! She’s alive. Get the prison guard!” Mabel was rushed to the infirmary and narrowly saved. She didn’t die in prison. But she endured endless humiliation and relentless torment in that place, a darkness that almost broke her. The torment was so awful that it nearly drove her to madness. Three years later, Mabel was released. As the gates of Seacastle Women’s Prison creaked open, Mabel stepped out slowly, looking like a moving white stick. She wore the same white dress she had worn three years before her sentencing to the women’s prison. Now, it hung off her body like an ill-fitting sack. Her steps were slow and deliberate. She headed toward the bus stop several hundred feet away. In her hand, she clutched a black plastic bag. Inside the bag was her entire fortune: 31.50 dollars and an old driver’s license. The summer sun bore down mercilessly. Heat waves shimmered off the gravel road as if the ground itself were burning. It must’ve been over 90 degrees, but no sweat broke on her parched, pale skin. Her pale skin was marred by bluish-purple bruises, and even her face bore evidence of past violence—a jagged, inches-long scar near her hairline stretched across her temple, stark and unmissable. The bus pulled up. Mabel boarded and carefully pulled a single coin from the black bag to drop into the fare box. The bus was nearly empty. The driver shot her a quick, disdainful glance before turning his attention back to the road. The people getting on here were ex-cons. Bad guys. All of them.The driver thought to himself. Mabel ignored the look. She walked to the back of the bus, taking a seat in the farthest corner, hoping to go unnoticed. As the bus rumbled on, she stared out the window, watching the world outside. Three years. Everything had changed. Her lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. Yes, the world had changed—and so had she. When the bus reached the bustling downtown area, reality hit her like a slap. She was out of prison. But where could she go? The answer was painfully obvious—nowhere. Her family had cast her out long ago to protect themselves. In the three years she’d been locked away, not one of them had visited her. Mabel opened the plastic bag again, staring at the crumpled bills and coins inside. 30.50 dollars. She counted it three times, just to be sure. What now? What should she do? Her gaze drifted to a nearby storefront. A bright sign advertising job openings caught her attention. “Driver, I’d like to get off, please.” She spoke in a low, almost apologetic tone. Prison had stripped her of any pride, leaving her meek and hesitant when speaking to others. The driver grumbled but opened the door. Mabel muttered a quiet thank you and stepped out. She approached the job board outside the store, her eyes sweeping over the listings until they settled on three simple words. Cleaning Staff Wanted. Room and one meal included. Mabel had no home. No qualifications. The Scotts had erased her academic records, and she carried the stain of a prison record. Even the prospect of applying for a janitor’s job seemed bleak. But what choice did she have? Mabel clutched the last of her money, steeled herself, and stepped inside the building—a place known as Club Royale. The blast of cold air from the central AC hit her, sending a shiver through her frame. … “Name,” a woman demanded impatiently, barely glancing up. “Mabel Jenning.” Her voice was hoarse and slow, startling the glamorous woman, who nearly dropped her pen. “What’s wrong with your voice?” she asked, annoyance creeping into her tone. After enduring three years of hellish prison life, Mabel had grown accustomed to a subdued demeanor. Even when someone blatantly criticized her raspy voice to her face, she remained unruffled, speaking slowly as if she had no temper at all. “Smoke inhalation,” she explained in a low, deliberate tone. The glamorous woman raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, her curious gaze settling on Mabel. “A fire?” she asked, probing further. “Yes, fire.” She answered quietly, her gaze dropping. It wasn’t a falsehood, but it wasn’t the complete truth either—the fire was caused by arson. The glamorous woman saw that Mabel had no interest in talking and quickly lost patience. Clicking her tongue, she frowned. “No way. Club Royale isn’t your average nightclub, and the people who come here aren’t your average guests.” Her eyes swept over Mabel again, openly disgusted. She didn’t even try to hide it. Mabel, with her thin frame draped in a dress that looked more like a potato sack—yellowed with age—was clearly out of her league. Club Royale wasn’t a place for ordinary people. Even the waitstaff there was expected to possess striking looks and enviable figures. This girl? What gave her the audacity to even apply? The woman stood, waving Mabel off with a dismissive hand. “No. You won’t do. Not even as a server.” Turning, she made to leave. “I’m applying for the janitor position.” A raspy voice, low and unhurried, echoed from behind her, stopping her movement. The woman paused, turning back with a raised eyebrow. Her gaze swept over Mabel again, this time more inquisitive. She expressed her skepticism, saying, “I’ve never seen a girl in her 20s willing to lower herself to scrubbing floors.” The cleaning staff here were usually women in their 40s or older. This girl—scarred and thin as a rail—looked to be no more than 20. And yet, Club Royale was full of young women in their 20s—experienced and inexperienced escort girls and some waitresses. But a janitor? In her 20s? Unheard of. She waited, expecting Mabel to spill a sob story about hard times and an unforgiving world. The woman was prepared to dismiss Mabel immediately if she began pleading about how life had beaten her down. Hard times? Please. Such stories were commonplace at Club Royale. You could fill a library with the tales of people trying to claw their way out of misery. Who cared about the struggles of a stranger? But Mabel surprised her. Her raspy voice was steady, almost harsh, as she said, “If I could sell my body, I’d spread my legs and welcome them. But I’ve taken a good look at myself—I don’t have what it takes to sell. So, I’ll sell my labor instead. I’ll do the work I’m capable of doing.” She was reduced to a mere number—926, a convicted criminal. Once you’ve been to a place like that and come out again, what use is dignity? A trace of self-mockery flickered in Mabel’s eyes. The glamorous woman raised an eyebrow, surprised. She gave Mabel another once-over, her gaze lingering before she walked back to the desk. Picking up a pen, she asked, “Mabel? A lovable girl?” “Yes.” “This doesn’t seem right.” The woman reexamined her and said skeptically, “Parents who’d give their child that name must’ve loved her a lot.” Mabel’s lifeless eyes gave nothing away, like the still surface of a stagnant pool. Loved? Maybe. If she hadn’t been responsible for Whitney’s death. If she hadn’t brought their family to ruin, maybe she could say they loved her very much. “I don’t have a family,” she said flatly. The woman’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t pry further. “Fine. Go make a copy of your ID,” she said, standing up. As she made her way to the door, her towering high heels clicking sharply against the floor, she paused and turned back. “Mabel,” she said, her tone sharp, almost cold. “Mabel, do you know why I’m making an exception and hiring you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. That woman revealed, “It’s because you said something right. If you had the ability to sell your body, you would do so. Since you are unable to sell your body, you accept your fate and make the best effort possible. At least you know your place.”