In 1970, murky light filters into Kya’s county jail cell. Dressed in a gray inmate jumpsuit, she drags a crate beneath the high window to glimpse the sea and marsh beyond the bars, taking brief solace in pelicans and the memory of an eagle diving the day before.

The cell block is a row of small rooms with barred doors and damp cement walls, each with a narrow bed, sink, and toilet. As the first long-term female inmate in years, Kya gets only a plastic curtain for privacy. She has been held without bail for two months because she once tried to escape the sheriff by boat. Restless and raw, she scratches her arms and plucks strands of hair, thinking about the word “cell” versus “cage.”

Kya recites an Amanda Hamilton poem about a broken gull and the question of who decides the time to die, mirroring her own sense of damage and fate. The poem becomes a mental anchor amid her isolation.

Two jailed men down the corridor trade gossip from visitors about Kya’s case, including speculation that she could face the death penalty. Kya isn’t afraid of being dead, but the planned, deliberate act of execution terrifies her. Sleep eludes her; she falls toward slumber only to jolt awake. Brought back after a day in court, she watches time warp, unsure if even an hour has passed.