The guard's keys jangled in the dim pre‐dawn corridor, followed by a harsh shout.
"Up! Get moving! You're leaving the prison."
Steve and Maxwell hauled themselves from their narrow bunks as the cell door clanged open. A second guard, clipboard in hand, stood waiting in the hallway.
"Really? We're going home!" Maxwell's eyes brighten.
"No. You're being transferred to Cascadia. A camp there will hold the rest of your sentence."
Maxwell's heart pounded. "Cascadia? Why there?"
"Prisons are bursting over capacity," the guard replied. "Follow me to board the boat."
They walked down the hallway behind the guards. Steve said, "At least they're not lining us up against a wall," he muttered, more to calm.
Maxwell ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I heard camps in Cascadia break you with heat and endless labor."
"Better that than the gallows," Steve said softly.
An hour later, they sat on the deck, wrists cuffed to the rail, the salt‐tanged wind doing little to chase away their fear. A third prisoner shuffled closer, sun‐baked and grim.
"Name's Luke," he offered. "Lolita's swept too many into her jails—overflow's the only reason we're here. Cascadia's camps work you from dawn 'til dark."
Steve met his gaze. "My faith teaches me that hope outlasts the darkest trials. We'll endure."
Maxwell stared at the endless gray sea. "Hope's a hard thing to hold onto when everything's gone to hell."
Steve laid a steady hand on Maxwell's shoulder. "Lean on me, brother. That's what I'm here for."
Luke nodded, a flicker of respect in his eyes. "We'll need every ounce of that spirit to survive."
As the boat chugged away from the prison's silhouette, the three men turned to face an uncertain horizon—bound for sweat, toil, and the promise that even in exile, hope could travel with them.