The exit sign said, Rock City, Illinois Bureau of Corrections.

The bus turned rig ht and drove through farm lands towards the cluster of buildings surrounded by a n imposing fence. In a moment we would be stopping in front of its secure gate. I had been on this bus before and I knew that it passed by Rock City, I just hop ed that no local would want to spring on board. Yet, there he stood. His attend ant waved to the driver promising there would be no problems with this one. When he got onto the bus, everyone noticed. Everyone knew where he was from. He knew we knew. The State of Illinois would pay for this trip, we thought, but it would be the l ast thing we would pay for him. Together: we would travel through the night to Chicago. He smiled at me, then sat down. Short hair. Clean shaven. He looked like a Mar ine. He sat facing the front, he neither spoke nor moved. Tension strangled those who were still awake. I was simply relieved that my wond ering was over; but afraid to dream the scenery by that would pass darkly before me the last eight hours to Chicago. One again on the road north, we sleeplessly passed miles of farms darkened by th e moonless sky. Dark shapes ran passed as the homes of farmers and their familie s moved with the unfolding road before us. My mind continually returned to Rock City. The Bureau of Corrections knew what t hey were doing when they chose those rocks to be broken. Many a long hot day was spent striking white hard rock with a cold steel hammer. I pitied especially th e men in brown uniforms: supervising this waste of Gods creation. In Chicago, no one would care. People cared now: whats the difference? Fear. Anger. Anger at the crime we knew n othing about? Or was it that he reminded us of ourselves. The lady opposite me told me through her haughty wrinkles and fur coat that, hav ing walked past this man on the Miracle Mile, she would neither flinch nor care if someone told her that this man just came from Rock City. Rock City? Yet now; now she knows. Now her chin planted firmly in the air assuming a moral superio rity over the man who was caught and has now finished paying for his crimes. The landscape continued unchanging. Ive seen the dirt along these roads. It is some of the blackest, finest soil in t he world for growing the rich crops. My grandmothers hands were darker than my o wn because she worked by my grandfathers side growing the staples that kept Ameri ca alive through the lean years. I wonder how many barrels of moonshine were made, or drunk, by my forefathers? They too deserved to be residents of Rock City? The man did not move. In his sleep he stayed locked in his seat, as if trained through years of sleeping in a tight place. We. We however stewed and coughed an d nodded, while our hearts, our chins, continued to point to the roof. Lights flew by on the other side of the bus. It appeared to the woman opposite me that they sped up as to avoid the infamous bus from Rock City. She knew that it was a crime that we were forced to ride with a convict. She knew that those driving by pitied us and shied away as from the Plague. We all knew. Why should I pay for you to go to Chicago where you can wreak havoc again! In Chicago, no one would care. He awoke! He opened his bag. The brown coat with the gold embroidered IBC on his shoulder proved me wrong.