Chapter 68 — Little Miracle | Jailbirds In Flight

As if we got the same memo, Miriam and I doubled down on our walks. Our warrior turned power-walker—lap after lap, like we could get the wheels turning again. We dreamed out loud: her house when she’s home; her nonprofit where wrongs are made right; most of all, her ministry. A world inside the world. An engine inside the dorm. We were yoked by a single want—to see these women rise. We shared. I talked about how I’m fifty-eight. Also, an introvert. How this is not usually a “making new friends” era of life. But here we were. There’d been no other way. Miriam shared from her own life, her dream of becoming a minister, the church she hoped to build, the wisdom she’d gained from her time inside, the sermons she played out in her head, waiting to come out. “Like what?” I asked, sensing the burgeoning creativity. “You ever write them out?” “I know, I should,” she said, shaking her head, like trying to clear a fog from in front of her. “It’s hard, who would want to listen to them?

I just keep doing my Bible study groups.” An idea began to percolate in my mind. Lyric joined us. Eight months pregnant, wrapped in a head scarf that makes her look like Mary. Even swollen-bellied, she set the pace and we kept up. “Finding out I was pregnant on intake was crazy as fuck,” she said. “Before I got locked up, I thought I might be, so I took my ass down for an abortion. I knew I couldn’t have a baby with that dude, not the life I was living. They did the pee test, the sonogram—said I wasn’t pregnant. Said I was irregular from birth control. So I kept going.” She shook her head. “I get locked up and they tell me I’m four months.

You gotta be kidding me. The nurse called psych ’cause I was crying so hard. I told her, ‘I ain’t crazy. I’m mad.’” We laughed because she wanted us to. Then her voice went low. “Looking back, I feel different. There’s a reason I came to jail. A reason my baby hid that long—from me, from the doctors. He was meant to be. He’s my little miracle.” We went quiet—pin-drop quiet. Lyric has presence. She can make you laugh till you wheeze, then bring the room to stillness. In that moment, the only thing to see was the miracle. And we did. “I prayed my whole bail hearing,” she said. “Judge slammed that gavel—bail denied. So I started looking for other ways.

I’m the type who doesn’t dwell on the bad. Yeah, I was tight, but I try to keep spirits high. I got my sentencing pushed up four months. I had a shot at a program where I could keep my baby. I didn’t even know that existed—being locked up with your baby.” She swallowed. “Then boom. Government shutdown. Programs shut down. Now I wake up scared my water’s gonna break and they’ll take him.” We all went a little green—roller-coaster stomachs. In a dorm like this, under constant uncertainty, empathy concentrates. We don’t just hear stories; we live them. For a minute, we were all Lyric—carrying a miracle that might be taken. “I still got hope,” she said. “I picture staff walking in and saying they’ll drive me to Seattle.

I’d even risk a flight—anything to keep my baby. I put in a pardon app. Wrote to Al Sharpton. I’m trying everything. Don’t take my baby.” Her eyes broke away. “But sometimes you gotta lay down and stay down…” The silence returned, but heavier. I saw Miriam’s lips moving— prayer. Rach and I traded a look—our turn to hold the thread in our way. Nevaeh moved in beside Lyric with the kind of steady that doesn’t need words. The five of us, bunkies on Religion Row, walk the track together in silence, circling, powerless to fix what matters most—yet still holding to a miracle after so much defeat. That is its own miracle. The voice in me said a single prayer: Let this baby be born free.