I’m sitting in my cell at Portobello Prison, staring at the jar of marmalade on my shelf. It’s the last one I made before they took me away. Outside, the rain taps against the bars like it’s trying to tell me something. I thought I’d be used to this by now—the gray walls, the clanging doors, the way the other inmates look at me like I don’t belong. But tonight feels different. Tonight, I wonder if they’ve forgotten me.

Knuckles found me crying yesterday. Not loud sobs—just quiet ones, into my duffle coat. He didn’t say anything. Just handed me a spoon and said, 'Kitchen. Now.' I’ve been helping him cook ever since. Turns out, marmalade improves even the worst prison meals.

But I can’t stop thinking about the Browns. Did they try to find the real thief? Did they see the sketches? Or have they moved on, thinking I really stole that book?

Then, through the crack in the door, I hear it—Phibs whispering to Spoon. 'He’s planning to escape tonight. Says he’s got a call to make.'

My heart pounds. This might be my only chance. Do I risk everything to prove I’m innocent? Or do I stay and accept a life behind bars?