Chapter 1 Fourth of July morning, Wil Stirman woke up with blood on his hands. He’d been dreaming about the men who kil ed his wife. He’d been strangling them, one with each hand. His fingernails had cut half-moons into his palms. Sunlight filtered through the barred window, refracted by lead glass and chicken wire. In the berth above, his cel mate, Zeke, was humming “Amazing Grace.” “Up yet, boss?” Zeke cal ed, excitement in his voice. Today was the day. A few more hours. Then one way or the other, Wil would never have to have that dream again. He wiped his palms on the sheets. He shifted over to his workspace—a metal desk with a toadstool seat welded to the floor. Stuck on the wal s with Juicy Fruit gum were eight years’ worth of Wil ’s sketches, fluttering in the breeze of a little green plastic fan. Adam and Eve. Abraham and Isaac. Moses and Pharaoh. He opened his Bible and took out what he’d done last night—a map instead of a Bible scene. Behind him, Zeke slipped down from the bunk. He started doing waist twists, his elbows cutting the air above Wil ’s head. “Freedom sound good, boss?” “Watch what you say, Zeke.” “Hel , just Independence