Zalman’s casquette pinched at his temples, too snug against his skull. He sat wedged between six other young men in the van en route to Gulf Pines Correctional Facility. His only reference points for prison came from movies—none of which did much to calm his nerves. The van’s heater, blasting at full force, only made things worse. His beard itched, and his shirt clung to his back, damp and sticky. Since merging onto the freeway, Menachem hadn’t so much as tapped the brake. Loud music crackled from the van’s tinny speakers, competing with the desperate roar of the engine. Zalman tried to catch some sleep before they arrived, but between the blaring noise and being wedged between the door and a snoring Yankel, he soon gave up.
In the prison’s expansive parking lot, the yeshiva students spilled out of the van, stretching stiff limbs. Menachem headed to the trunk to retrieve the large box of donuts, their sweet scent having taunted the group throughout the hour-long ride from the yeshiva. Zalman carried a small gold-leaf menorah and a plastic bag filled with fifty colourful wax candles—staples he kept on hand throughout Chanukah, ready to give to any Jew who might need them, so they too could fulfil the mitzvah of lighting the menorah.
As the group of jacket-clad, menorah-toting yeshiva students passed through the prison’s administrative entrance, Zalman found himself wondering: Were these the same doors new inmates walked through on their first day? He pictured himself entering not as a visitor, but as a...
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