Isaac laughed softly. "Then I guess I need new material."
At another table, a prisoner in a pale blue shirt reached across the tabletop to hold his daughter's hand. Near the serving line, a boy in a baseball cap showed his father a report card. For perhaps ten minutes, the room looked almost like the one in the promotional video. Lena caught herself relaxing.
Then she noticed the large prisoner standing beside the milk cooler.
Warren Doyle was a kitchen porter. Everybody inside Eastfield called him Tank, a nickname that fit the slabs of muscle beneath his uniform and the rough tattoo that climbed the side of his neck. He had a record of fights, threats, and disciplinary warnings, though very few recent incidents appeared in the official log. He was not supposed to be serving families during a contact meal. Today, however, he wore the apron of a trustee worker and moved through the room with the authority of someone who knew he could go where other men could not.
Isaac noticed him too. His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"What's wrong?" Lena asked.
"Nothing for you to worry about."
"Isaac."
He looked toward the nearest officer before answering. "Keep Micah close to the table. That's all."
Lena followed his gaze. Lieutenant Pike, the officer supervising the program, was leaning against a column with a clipboard in his hand. When Warren looked at him, Pike gave the smallest nod. The gesture might have meant nothing to anybody else. Isaac had watched these men long enough to know better.
A volunteer called families to the serving line in groups. Isaac's table was assigned the last group. When their turn arrived, Lena accompanied Micah while Isaac waited at the table, as required by the program. Micah insisted on carrying his own tray. It held macaroni, peas, an apple, a milk carton, and a square of cake. He left the apple untouched because he planned to share it with his father.
As they returned, Mrs. Kessler asked Lena to sign a form confirming the family had received the program meal. Lena stepped a few feet toward the volunteer's desk, close enough to see Micah but not close enough to reach him immediately. He continued toward their table on his own. Isaac was standing beside his chair, waiting to move it back for him.
That was when Warren crossed the aisle.
Warren planted himself between Micah and the chair. His shoulders filled the boy's view. There were patches of flour on his apron, and his hands smelled faintly of onions and industrial cleaner. He smiled down at the tray.
"Well, look at this," he said. "Special lunch for the special little visitor."
Micah tried to go around him. "Excuse me."
Warren shifted sideways to block the path. "Didn't hear you say thank you for the food."
"Thank you," Micah answered automatically.