Dilan was a giant of a man, soft-spoken, convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. He had the strange gift of pulling sickness from others—a touch that could heal. When a dying sparrow fell from its nest in the prison yard, Dilan held it in his palm until it chirped and flew away.

Dilan said only, “It’s okay. I’m tired. But you be kind, Aram. Even here. Especially here.”

Inside worked a guard named Aram, a man with tired eyes and a gentle hand. He had seen men come and go, but none like Dilan.