In the near future, prison overcrowding has led to some changes in the judicial system of the United States. In the case of capitol crimes, a new alternative sentencing has been introduced. The condemned has the option of foregoing all appeals in exchange for at least thirty days of relative freedom, under what is considered "invisible surveillance." This new option has become known as the Last Wish.
There is a hitch, however: at some point following those thirty days, the condemned man or woman will be killed. They do not know how or when they will meet their fate; all that is certain is that they will.
The following is the story of an ordinary man named James Mailer, and how he lives out the last days of his life.
*****
"Will the defendant please rise."
With a deep, nervous breath, James took to his feet, shrugging the wrinkles from his suit. He wondered yet again if the decision he had made was the right one. It was difficult to convince himself that thirty days or so as a free man, followed by certain death, was worth the sacrifice of the rest of his life behind prison bars.
The judge was a middle-aged man who had scowled all through the trial. There was always the chance he might overrule James' request, if only out of spite or principle. James was uncertain as to whether that would be a good thing.
"It is your request that you forgo all further right to appeal by taking the Last Wish option?"
James nodded heavily. "Yes, your honor."
The judge looked down upon James with narrowed eyes. "Tired of living?"
James frowned. "Not at all, your honor."
"Current life expectancy in the United States is eighty-three years," the judge continued. "Even though it may be spent in prison, you could still make a contribution to the community over the next five decades or so. Why decide to end your life, instead?"
James hung his head, contemplating his words. A hundred pairs of eyes and more bore into his back, many belonging to friends and relatives. Their hatred and desire for retribution weighed upon him. Finally, James lifted his head and stared directly at the judge.
"I deserve it."
The judge pursed his lips, thinking. He leaned back, drumming his fingers upon the polished wood of the podium that all but surrounded the man. "Far be it for me to question the wisdom of a condemned man," he said at last, taking up his gavel. "Sentence so ordered. You got your Last Wish, Mr. Mailer."
*****
The world sped by outside the car. James stared at roaming cattle as they grazed on dry grass, at the looming grey clouds that waited above the horizon. The landscape, the skies, everything seemed out of focus to James, as if he looked at everything through a clouded lens.
"So, you could have picked anywhere in the country to go," the US Marshall said as he drove. "And you wanna go to BFE, Texas?"
James smiled ruefully. "My grandfather's cabin," he explained simply.
The stocky lawman chuckled. "Okay, kudos for nostalgia," he said. "Still, if it was me, I'd be living it up in Vegas. Tequila, tits and twat. But that's just me."
James self-consciously rubbed the ring on his finger. "You didn't murder your wife."
*****
The cabin was small, essentially a single large room with walls constructed of red oak, dominated by a brass-framed bed and a grandiose Victorian-era couch, both draped by dust covers. A fireplace occupied one wall, a kitchenette the other. French doors at the rear of the small dwelling looked out upon a lake that was popular with bass fishermen and weekend wakeboarders.
The Marshall lead James into the cabin, looking around cursorily. He took a small metal rectangle from the pocket of his jacket and glanced around for a suitable place. He finally chose a section of wall that was not covered by framed pictures of an elderly man holding up various prize fish. Pressing a few buttons on the device, the Marshall then set it against the wall. It adhered itself instantly.
"You want a quick and easy way out, there you go," he drawled as he came back.
"What do you mean?" James asked with a frown.
"That's part of how we keep an eye on you," the Marshall explained, removing James' cuffs. "You can't go more than five miles from that device. If you do, you'll hear a pinging in your ear."
James self-consciously touched the small welt behind his left ear.
"If you hear that, you have one hour to get back inside your safety zone. If you don't, the small charge that was implanted in your head will do a pretty good job of turning your brains into strawberry jelly."
James winced at the comparison.
"Also, tampering with either that device, or the implanted charge, will set it off. So, like I said, if you want an easy way out, there you go. Give it a good whack with a hammer, and bye-bye Mr. James Mailer."
James swallowed thickly. "Got it."
The Marshall stepped back. "No matter what you do or where you go, we're gonna know about it. You step out of line, and we can remote activate that brain-bomb at any time. But, be a good boy, and you'll never see us again. Is that clear?"
James nodded, massaging his wrists. The handcuffs had become a bit snug after hours of driving. "I understand."
The Marshall glanced around at the sheet-covered furniture. "Been a while since this place was used, huh?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. James new the man was being amiable only out of professional courtesy, not because he truly cared or was interested in the details of James' life.
James nodded. "My grandfather passed away a few years ago," he said, smiling nostalgically. "When I was growing up, I'd come visit him in the summer. He always brought me here to teach me to fish."
"I saw the pictures," the Marshall commented. "Looks like the old man was pretty accomplished."
"Champion bass fisherman," James said proudly.
"You any good?"
James chuckled. "I couldn't catch a cold if I tried," he remarked dryly.
The Marshall laughed, then extended his hand. "Well, enjoy the last days of your life, Mr. Mailer."
James' smiled faded. He said nothing as he shook the lawman's hand, nor as the man left the cabin.
Thanks for the reminder.
*****
The first several days were spent in a melancholic daze. James called a grocer just a mile away, in the small town beside the lake that catered to the weekend tourists and sportsmen. They delivered, and he ordered enough food to keep him supplied for a few weeks, perhaps more depending on his appetite. At first, his appetite had not been particularly healthy. His time was divided between philosophical meanderings and prolific weeping.
By that Monday morning, however, nearly a week after his arrival, James had fallen into an equilibrium. Introspection and self-pity had come together under the umbrella of acceptance.
Late spring in the Texas hill country was warm and humid to the point of being uncomfortable at times. Without air conditioning in the cabin, all James had to cool himself off with was a pair of standing oscillating fans. They did an adequate job, for the most part, except during the middle of the day, when the heat and humidity was oppressive.
He watched a squirrel foraging for acorns as he sat upon the stoop of the rear patio, and tossed it pieces of the crust from his ham and cheese sandwich. The small act of kindness gave James a hint of a smile. The squirrel, at least, appreciated his generosity before scampering away with its booty.
This is too peaceful
, James thought as he stared out across the glimmering water. A small boat floated lazily on the lake, just close enough that James noticed the two young women with their bikinis and bronzed skin. In a general way, one of them reminded him of Angie. Blonde and voluptuous.
Sourly, James reached for the glass of orange juice beside him.
Almost.
He heard the rhythmic crunching of feet along the lakeside before the woman appeared beyond the trees that bordered the cabin's property. Long brunette hair was confined in a ponytail that bounced behind her head as she jogged. Her skin was lightly tanned and shimmered with sweat, which had soaked into her plain white halter. Both the top and her tiny red shorts clung to her body, outlining the shape of her small, firm breasts and her rather inspiring backside. Lean, toned legs quivered with each pounding footfall . . . until she noticed James and stumbled to a halt.
"Oh! Where did you come from?" she asked breathlessly.
James laughed softly under his breath. "This is my cabin."
The woman – she appeared to be in her mid-twenties – frowned, placing her hands on her hips. She did not seem to care that her soaked top was nearly transparent. "Did you know Jerry?"
James smiled. "My grandfather."
She cocked her head, a curious smile stretching her lips. A few cautionary steps brought her closer to James as she studied his face. She finally smiled broadly. "Yeah. You have the same nose. And eyes."
He nodded, setting aside his sandwich and juice. Although the woman's presence made him a little unnerved – he had not wanted any real human contact – his sense of manners bade him to introduce himself. "I'm James," he said, offering his hand.
She shook it with a firm, yet still womanly, grip. Her skin was warm and supple. The sweet aroma of her exertion wafted off her body like perfume. "Megan."
"So, uh, how did you know my grandfather?"
Megan's face warmed with a touch of fondness. James noticed that her eyes were a pale green. "We used to talk," she said simply. "Every morning, I'd see him standing out there with his hip-waders and fishing pole. He was a really nice man." She suddenly smiled at a memory. "He'd always share his lemonade with me."
"Sounds like Gramps," James said, then mimicked a gruff, older voice. "
'Freshly squeezed, Jimmy. Don't ya ever drink that Minute Maid crap! And real sugar!'
