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<strong>The</strong>re were three visit<strong>in</strong>g rooms, and when a third name was announced and <strong>the</strong> woman and children<br />
rose, I was dismayed. But <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> officer reopened VISITING 2, ushered <strong>the</strong> group <strong>in</strong>, and called, “Knight.”<br />
I was wanded front and back, thankful that <strong>the</strong> small notebook and pen stashed <strong>in</strong> my pocket weren’t<br />
confiscated. <strong>The</strong> officer unlocked VISITING 3—a sign on <strong>the</strong> door warned that if you left for any reason,<br />
you’d be prohibited from return<strong>in</strong>g—and I stepped <strong>in</strong>side and <strong>the</strong> door closed beh<strong>in</strong>d me, and I was rattled<br />
with nerves. My eyes adjusted to <strong>the</strong> dimmer light, and <strong>the</strong>re, <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> t<strong>in</strong>y booth, sealed off beh<strong>in</strong>d a thick<br />
pane of shatterproof plastic, sitt<strong>in</strong>g on a stool, was Christopher Knight.<br />
Rarely <strong>in</strong> my life have I witnessed someone less pleased to see me. His th<strong>in</strong> lips were pulled <strong>in</strong>to a<br />
downturned scowl; his eyes did not rise to meet m<strong>in</strong>e. I sat across from him, also on a stool with a black<br />
wooden top. I placed my notebook on <strong>the</strong> metal desk bolted to <strong>the</strong> wall below <strong>the</strong> plastic w<strong>in</strong>dow. <strong>The</strong>re was<br />
no acknowledgment of my presence, not <strong>the</strong> merest nod. He gazed someplace beyond my left shoulder,<br />
nearly motionless. He was wear<strong>in</strong>g a dull green overlaundered jail uniform several sizes too big.<br />
A black phone receiver hung on <strong>the</strong> wall, and I picked it up. He picked his up—<strong>the</strong> first movement I saw<br />
him make. <strong>The</strong>re was a bit of recorded legal boilerplate, warn<strong>in</strong>g that <strong>the</strong> conversation might be monitored,<br />
and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> l<strong>in</strong>es opened.<br />
I spoke first. “Nice to meet you, Chris.”<br />
He didn’t respond. He just sat <strong>the</strong>re, stone-faced, his bald<strong>in</strong>g head sh<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g like a snowfield beneath <strong>the</strong><br />
fluorescent lights, his beard—his jail calendar, one hundred and forty days <strong>in</strong>—a mess of curls, most<br />
brown, some red, a few gray. He had on metal-framed bifocals, different from <strong>the</strong> glasses he’d worn forever<br />
<strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> woods. His broad forehead and po<strong>in</strong>ty beard gave his face a triangular appearance, like a yield sign.<br />
He looked a little bit like <strong>the</strong> Russian writer Leo Tolstoy. He was sk<strong>in</strong>ny.<br />
<strong>The</strong> only picture I’d seen of Knight before com<strong>in</strong>g was his mug shot, <strong>in</strong> which he was clean-shaven and<br />
slightly frown<strong>in</strong>g, wear<strong>in</strong>g his old clunky glasses, his eyes beh<strong>in</strong>d <strong>the</strong>m heavy-lidded and dull after <strong>the</strong><br />
exhaustion and stress of his arrest. <strong>The</strong> man <strong>in</strong> front of me now appeared no more welcom<strong>in</strong>g, but <strong>the</strong>re<br />
was a clear sense of alertness and energy. He might not be look<strong>in</strong>g at me, but he was surely observ<strong>in</strong>g,<br />
though I didn’t know if he’d speak even a s<strong>in</strong>gle word.<br />
Knight had mentioned repeatedly <strong>in</strong> his letters that he felt at ease <strong>in</strong> silence. I looked at him not look<strong>in</strong>g at<br />
me. He had pale, boiled-potato-colored sk<strong>in</strong> and a sharp nose. His shoulders drooped, his posture curled<br />
<strong>in</strong>ward, defensive. Maybe a m<strong>in</strong>ute passed.<br />
This was all I could endure. “<strong>The</strong> constant bang<strong>in</strong>g and buzz<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> here,” I said, “must be so jarr<strong>in</strong>g<br />
compared with <strong>the</strong> sounds of nature.” He shifted his eyes to me—a m<strong>in</strong>or victory—<strong>the</strong>n glanced away. His<br />
eyes were light brown, and ra<strong>the</strong>r small. He scarcely had any eyebrows. My comment hung <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> air.<br />
<strong>The</strong>n he spoke, or at least his mouth moved. His first words were <strong>in</strong>audible. He was hold<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> phone’s<br />
mouthpiece too low, below his ch<strong>in</strong>. It had been decades s<strong>in</strong>ce he’d regularly used a phone; he was out of<br />
practice. I <strong>in</strong>dicated with my hand that he needed to move it up. He did, <strong>the</strong>n repeated his pronouncement.<br />
“It’s jail,” he said, and noth<strong>in</strong>g else. Silence once more.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re were so many questions to ask him, but <strong>the</strong>y all seemed wrong—too pry<strong>in</strong>g, too personal. I tried<br />
an <strong>in</strong>nocuous one: “What season did you like best when you were liv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> woods?”<br />
Knight paused, apparently labor<strong>in</strong>g to create a response. “I take each season as it comes,” he said, his<br />
scowl reappear<strong>in</strong>g. His voice was raspy, each word a dist<strong>in</strong>ct entity—overenunciated, unnaturally spaced,<br />
absent of elisions. Just a procession of nearly toneless sounds, with a h<strong>in</strong>t of <strong>the</strong> stretched vowels of a Down