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This is Rosita. I'll hit you back when I can.

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I was an inmate. I was kidnapped, too. I'm just trying to treat you how I wish I'd been treated.

You wanted trust from strangers just for existing and bearing a label?

Trust? No. I'm just saying your opinion matters.

Whatever you want to do in the Enclosure, let's not have it include talking.

Do you like motorcycles or horses?

Hell or camels. Why not.

Motorcycles.

Let's do it.

Though I should warn you there's a nonzero chance I'll be jumped by inmates while we're out there.

I pretty much always assume a nonzero chance of getting jumped.

And I still think the labels are stupid.

You don't think there's a power imbalance between wardens and inmates?

I'd like to think of us all as just passengers but as you've pointed out: you were kidnapped. I'm here because it's my job.

I do. I don't think it would be nearly as imbalanced if people wouldn't put as much stock in it as they do.

No one can tell me why I'm an inmate or what I'm supposed to do to graduate. Wardens don't have any qualifications they can state except wanting something bad enough to come here.

...Yeah. You're right.

My husband just called everyone 'passenger', uniformly.

But you don't agree with him?

I do. But I worry about disregarding how inmates feel about it.

I don't know. What do you think?

I think trying to group people together by something arbitrary and decise something about them is always going to blow up in your face. This is how I feel: don't fucking assume you can make decisions about who I am and what matters to me because I'm an inmate here.

The next person branded inmate might feel different.

Do you want me to just call you a passsenger, then?

How about Rosita?

I take your point.

Mm.

You said something about motorcycles?

Yeah enough talking, let's go be reckless. I'll meet you there.

She does not believe that he's taken her point. It's not personal, not really, only she doesn't really believe anyone right now and doesn't expect to be taken seriously unless or until she stabs someone.

She turns up anyway, her hair pulled back under her hat, her gloves on. She glances him over as she walks up.

"What kind of motorcycles?"

"They called them bullet bikes when I was your age," he says. "But who knows what they're called now. Street bikes? They're meant to go fast on smooth pavement."

"Didn't have you pegged for a crotch rocket man," she admits, skeptical but willing.

"Or is that for my benefit?"

"It's for you. I thought you'd want speed over aesthetics," he says. "Was I wrong? Are you a Harley girl?"

"Depends on the day."

She thinks, briefly, of Daryl's Honda - too sleek to be a tour bike, too broken up to be a sport bike. Daryl's.

She shakes her head.

"Today you're not wrong."