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“So, Masters,” said the guard, “Do you know how long this examination is going to take?” My nose was almost pressed against the window as I focused on a shopping center. “Well,” I said, “Let’s hope you guys won’t get back in time to be reassigned to more work, and let’s hope I won’t get back to my cell too soon, you know? Hell, guys,” I asked, “Isn’t there some long way we could take?”

Along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard I saw all different types of cars. I once knew the make of every single car I saw, but now I couldn’t tell a Chevy from a Toyota. I saw joggers, some wheeling strollers as they jogged, while others ran with their dogs on a leash. As we drove through the midst of everything and I looked at all the people, I felt that each one was sharing that day in their life with me. What if it had been them, these real faces, that I had stolen from? That I had shot at? I thought to myself. I didn’t know how I could have done what I did. I felt so much regret. How was I not able to feel all this before? I wondered.

Whenever we came to a red light, I was in the best moment—being there, not going any place, just waiting, thinking. Narrowing my focus, I could see small things like the names of businesses on building walls. Widen my lens, I could take in the bus benches and the pair of gray pigeons walking along as if they owned the sidewalk. I saw the beauty of life inside the canvas I wanted much to be a part of. I wondered: would I, could I, ever fit back into society after so damn long? I really felt that I could. But would I ever be allowed to?

Every time we drove through a green signal, I felt a bit disappointed. I even wished we’d find ourselves in a traffic jam for hours. I know such waiting usually frustrates people, but it is heavenly compared to San Quentin’s death row.

It didn’t take as long as I wished to get to Marin General Hospital. The car parked in front of the lobby door, and I got out, looking like an overgrown carrot with legs. In the hospital lobby sat a large number of people, including children. Walking in wearing that orange jumpsuit, under the escort of three uniformed guards, I felt like a character from The Silence of the Lambs. People stared at my waist-chains. I wasn’t sure if a smile would make things better or worse.

A man reading the Marin Independent Journal slightly lowered the newspaper as I walked by. For an instant, we looked at each other. Then he hid behind his sunglasses. Something was wrong, but what? I could swear I’d seen the ghost of my adjustment center counselor; I’d just seen him in the prison parking lot. No way could my counselor be sitting there.

We went down a hallway to the hearing specialist’s waiting room, where a middle-aged white woman finally came out and called my name. She explained the tests she would do and asked me if I had any questions. She acted as if she hadn’t noticed that I was a prisoner. The guards escorting me stood down from their “this is a hardened criminal.”

The testing area was a space no larger than my prison cell, all decorated like a children’s nursery. The specialist put earphones on my head, instructing me to raise my hand whenever I heard a sound. Then she and the guards left the room.

While I was listening for beeps to come into my ears, the word “sunglasses!” inadvertently came out of my mouth. The man reading the newspaper had been wearing sunglasses—that’s what was bothering me. Why would somebody wear sunglasses while reading a newspaper inside a hospital lobby?

When my hearing test ended, the specialist said there were still many charts she needed to read, but already she could see I had some deficiencies. She assured me that her final assessment would be forwarded to the prison.

“In a month or so?” I asked her.

“No, not even that long,” she replied as I walked out of her office into the hallway.

Speaking so comfortably to the hearing specialist gave me the courage to speak again, despite my carrot jumpsuit. I noticed an elderly lady walking by, completely bent over her cane. She was struggling so painfully