"Dear Cellmates," (said the postcard) "I need to go back to jail but I don't know what crime to commit. Could we get together and brainstorm? Marjorie"
Marjorie, Susan and I had been cellmates for ten days in 1967. Our crime was trespassing at a draft board during the Vietnam War. After college Susan and I had each moved to the city where we still get together regularly. But neither of us had seen Marjorie for almost forty years.
When she showed up at Susan's house she was still brown-haired and straight-spined, but her hands quivered. It was a symptom of a disease that would soon make her an invalid, she explained, and the best care she could get was in prison.
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