Friday morning. One day left.

I woke up before count. Flaco still snoring on the upper bunk. The tier quiet except for the usual sounds—toilets flushing, someone coughing three cells down, the distant clang of a door somewhere in the Pit.

One day until Danny expected his report.

One day to become a snitch and somehow not get killed for it.

I sat up. Rubbed my face. Hands steady now. Decision made last night, slept on it, still felt right. Solid. Children were the line. Danny crossed it. Simple as that.

The how was the complicated part.

Crimestoppers was anonymous. I knew that much. 1-800 number you called, gave information, hung up. They couldn't trace it. Couldn't force you to testify. Couldn't connect you to the tip.

In theory.

But I was in prison. Every phone call was monitored. Recorded. Logged. Guards listened. Inmates listened. Someone was always watching, always listening, always ready to use information as currency.

Making a call from inside meant risk. Big risk.

But yard phones were different. Public phones, bank of six, neutral ground. Everyone needed them. Guards watched from a distance but didn't hover. Conversations were semi-private. Volume of calls meant they couldn't monitor everything.

Semi-private wasn't anonymous. But it was better than cell phones or admin calls.

I'd have to wait for the right moment. Yard time. Busy period. Enough ambient noise to cover my voice. Enough people around that one more call wouldn't stand out.

Friday yard time. Afternoon, probably. After lunch when everyone was out. Kings on the court. Brotherhood at the weights. Independents scattered. Phones busy with guys calling lawyers, families, girlfriends.

One more call in the chaos.

That's when I'd do it.

Count came at six. I stood at the cell door with Flaco. Guard walked past, checked faces, moved on.

"You sleep?" Flaco asked when we sat back down.

"Some."

"You still look like shit."

"Yeah."

He studied me for a moment. Then shrugged. "Whatever you're working through, hermano, I hope you figure it out."

"Me too."

Breakfast. I forced myself to eat. Needed energy. Needed to look normal. Toast, eggs that might've been eggs, coffee that tasted like battery acid. Got it down anyway.

Danny wasn't at breakfast. Probably sleeping in. Or avoiding me. Either way, I didn't see him. Good. Didn't want to look at his face right now.

The morning dragged. I went to the library, returned some books, pretended to browse. Books was there, shelving returns. He glanced at me, nodded, went back to work. Didn't push conversation. Smart guy. Knew when someone needed space.

I found a book on Canadian criminal law. Old copy, outdated, but it had a section on anonymous tips. Read it twice. Confirmed what I thought: Crimestoppers protected tipsters. Anonymous reports were admissible if they led to physical evidence. A knife hidden in a specific location would count.

If they found it.

If Danny's prints were on it.

If the tip led them to Rochelle's body.

A lot of ifs.

But it was something.

I put the book back. Walked out of the library.

Yard time was at one PM. Four hours away.

I went back to Cell 47. Lay on my bunk. Went over it again.

The call had to be quick. Thirty seconds, maybe less. Get in, give the information, get out. No identifying details. No prison terminology. No voice they could connect to Thor O'Reilly, inmate #47928.

I'd need to disguise my voice. Not dramatically—that would stand out. Just slightly. Lower pitch. Different cadence. Flatten the Toronto accent. Sound like anyone from anywhere.

The information had to be specific but not suspicious. "I was partying next door" was my cover story. Saw someone hide something in the balcony overhang. Thought it was drugs at first. Then heard about the missing woman on the news. Thought I should call it in.

Plausible. Vague enough to be a concerned citizen. Specific enough to be useful.

I rehearsed it in my head. Over and over. Word choice. Tone. Pacing.

"Yeah, I want to report something about that missing woman in Parkdale. Rochelle Martinez."

Pause. Let them respond.

"I was partying at 1507 Dundas West. Fifteenth floor. Saw someone hide something in the balcony overhang. Gap between the metal railing and the concrete. Thought it was drugs. But then I heard about Rochelle on the news. Same building, one floor down. Thought you should know."

Pause. They'd ask questions.

"I don't want to get involved. Just thought you should check it out. The overhang. Fifteenth floor. Unit 1507."

Hang up.

Walk away.

Done.

Thirty seconds. Maybe forty if they asked follow-ups.

I could do this.

Had to do this.

Flaco climbed down from the upper bunk. "You going to yard?"

"Yeah."

"Want company?"

"Nah. Got some thinking to do."

He looked at me. Long look. Knew something was up. But didn't push.

"Be careful, hermano."

"Always am."

Another lie. But he let it slide.

One PM. Yard time.

The afternoon was hot. July heat, sticky and oppressive. Guys stripped down to t-shirts, some shirtless if guards didn't care that day. Brotherhood at the weight pile, skin pink and sweating. Latin Kings dominated the basketball court, shirts versus skins. Black Kingsmen scattered in smaller groups, talking, smoking when guards weren't looking.

And the phone bank. Six phones bolted to the wall. Neutral ground. Everyone needed them.

Four phones were occupied when I got there. Two guys talking to lawyers probably—serious faces, low voices, occasional nods. One guy talking to family—Spanish, animated, smiling. One guy arguing with someone—girlfriend maybe, or ex-wife. Voice rising, finger jabbing the air.

Two phones open.

I walked over. Casual. Like I was just making a call. Nothing unusual. Thor making his weekly call. Nobody cared.

I picked up the receiver on the end phone. Farthest from the occupied ones. Maximum distance, minimum chance of being overheard.

Dialed 1-800-222-TIPS. Crimestoppers. Number was on a poster in the library. I'd memorized it this morning.

It rang. Once. Twice.

My heart hammered. Hands steady but everything else was adrenaline and fear.

Third ring.

Pick up. Come on.

Fourth ring.

"Crimestoppers. This call is anonymous and may be recorded for quality assurance. What information do you have?"

Woman's voice. Professional. Neutral. Recording for quality assurance—that meant they logged calls but didn't trace them. Or so they claimed.

I lowered my voice slightly. Flattened my accent. Not dramatic. Just different.

"Yeah, I want to report something about that missing woman. Rochelle Martinez. In Parkdale."

Pause. I could hear her typing.

"Go ahead."

"I was partying at 1507 Dundas Street West. Fifteenth floor. Few months back. Saw someone hide something in the balcony overhang. Gap between the metal railing and the concrete. Thought it was drugs at the time, didn't think much of it."

More typing.

"When was this?"

"Six months ago. Maybe more. Winter. There was snow."

"And you're calling now because...?"

"Heard about Rochelle on the news. Missing woman, same building, one floor down. Apartment 1407. Thought... I don't know. Thought maybe it's connected. Thought you should check."

"What did you see hidden?"

"Couldn't tell. Something wrapped up. Weatherproof. Could be nothing. Could be something." I paused. Let doubt creep in. Made it sound like I was uncertain. "Just thought you should know. The overhang. Fifteenth floor balcony. Unit 1507."

"Can I get your name?"

"No. I don't want to get involved. Just check it out, okay? If it's nothing, it's nothing. If it's something..."

I let that hang.

"Sir, if you have information about a crime—"

"I gave you what I have. Check the balcony. That's all I can do."

I hung up.

Stood there for a second. Receiver still in my hand. Heart still pounding.

Done.

I'd just snitched on Danny Keyes.

I hung up the receiver. Walked away from the phone bank. Casual. Normal. Just another call. Nobody watching.

Except everyone was always watching.

I found a spot by the fence. Far from the phones. Far from the basketball court. Far from the weights. Just me and chain-link and the certainty that I'd just crossed a line I couldn't uncross.

The tip was in. Anonymous, but recorded. They had the location. 1507 Dundas West. Fifteenth floor balcony overhang. Specific enough to check. Vague enough not to raise immediate suspicion about how I knew.

Now it was up to the cops.

If they followed up.

If they found the knife.

If Danny's prints were on it.

If they connected it to Rochelle's body.

A lot of ifs.

But it was done.

I stood there, gripping the fence, watching the yard move around me.

Danny was over by the basketball court. Watching the game. Laughing at something. That charming smile. Blue-black skin in the sun. Intense eyes tracking the ball.

He had no idea.

Tomorrow he'd ask for his report. Expect me to tell him his stash was safe. Expect me to confirm the knife was still hidden, undisturbed, secure.

Instead, cops would be pulling it out of the balcony overhang. Dusting for prints. Running DNA. Building a case.

And Danny would know someone snitched.

He'd start looking for who.

My stomach twisted.

The afternoon stretched. I stayed in the yard longer than usual. Didn't want to go back to the cell. Didn't want to be alone with my thoughts. Needed the noise, the movement, the distraction.

Werner approached around three. Alone this time. No backup. Just checking in.

"You good?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"You make your call?"

My blood froze. "What?"

"Your call. The phones." Werner gestured with his chin. "Saw you over there earlier. Weekly check-in with your brother?"

Oh. Right. I made calls sometimes. Connor, once a month. Werner knew that.

"Yeah," I said. "Just checking in."

"How's he doing?"

"Good. His kid's growing up. She’s Five." Truth mixed with lies. Safest deception.

"Nice." Werner studied me. "You seem tense."

"Just tired. Didn't sleep well."

"Still?" Werner frowned. "You been saying that all week. You need to see medical? Can't have you falling apart on us."

"I'm fine."

"Okay." But he didn't look convinced. "Just make sure you take care of yourself. You're valuable, remember. Can't have our investment burning out."

There was that word again. Investment.

Werner walked away. I watched him go.

He'd noticed I made a call. Probably didn't think anything of it—guys made calls all the time. But he'd noticed. Werner noticed everything.

I needed to be more careful.

Evening came. Dinner. I sat with Flaco. Forced myself to eat. Mac and cheese, or something approximating it. Fruit cup. Bread.

Danny walked past our table. Didn't stop. Didn't look at me. Just walked by like I didn't exist.

Strange. Yesterday he'd checked in. Asked about Saturday. Confirmed I'd have something for him.

Today, nothing.

Maybe he was playing it cool. Didn't want to look too eager. Didn't want to draw attention to our business arrangement.

Or maybe he knew something.

No. Impossible. The call was anonymous. Cops wouldn't have found the knife yet. Even if they did, even if they arrested him, it would take days. Warrants. Evidence processing. Building a case.

I was being paranoid.

Paranoid gets you killed, Flaco had said on my first day. But fear keeps you smart.

I needed to be smart.

"You okay?" Flaco asked.

"Yeah."

"You've been weird all week."

"Just got a lot on my mind."

"Anything I can help with?"

I looked at him. Flaco. My cellie for over a year. Friend. The guy who'd taught me how to survive this place. Who'd protected me when I was a fish. Who had my back.

I wanted to tell him. Wanted to share the weight. But I couldn't.

"Nah," I said. "Just working through some stuff. I'll be fine."

He didn't look convinced. But he nodded. Let it drop.

We finished dinner in silence.

Lights out at ten.

I lay on my bunk. Flaco snoring above me. The tier settling into night sounds.

I'd done it. Called Crimestoppers. Given them everything they needed. Location. Floor. Specific hiding spot. Enough to find the knife. Enough to connect it to Rochelle's murder.

And tomorrow Danny would ask for his report.

What was I going to tell him?

The options cycled through my head again. Same four options as before, but now with different weight.

Option one: Lie. Say the stash was clear. Nobody found it. He was safe.

Buy time. Maybe cops wouldn't find the knife before Danny figured it out. Maybe the tip wouldn't lead anywhere. Maybe I'd get lucky.

But lying meant looking Danny in the eye and deceiving him. And Danny was smart. Observant. He'd see through it if I wasn't perfect.

Option two: Tell the truth. "Yeah, about your stash. I saw what you did. Saw you murder Rochelle. Saw you hide the knife. And I reported you."

Suicide. He'd kill me right there or send someone after me. Either way, dead man talking.

Option three: Avoid him. Don't show up to yard time. Stay in my cell. Claim sick.

Coward's move. And it wouldn't work. Danny would find me eventually. Couldn't hide forever in a prison.

Option four: Act normal. Show up to yard time. When Danny asks, tell him I failed the job. Couldn't project that far. Technical difficulties. Offer to return the twenty.

Risky. But maybe believable. Magic failed sometimes. Everyone knew that. I'd turned down jobs before when I couldn't deliver.

Option four was the play.

Show up. Act normal. Failed job. Return payment. Move on.

And hope to God the cops found that knife before Danny figured out who snitched.

I closed my eyes. Tried to sleep.

Didn't work.

My brain kept replaying it. The phone call. The woman's voice. "Can I get your name?" Me hanging up.

Anonymous tip. Untraceable.

Unless they found a way to trace it.

Unless someone saw me at the phones.

Unless Werner put two and two together.

Unless—

Stop.

Paranoia wasn't useful. Fear was useful. This was crossing into paranoia.

I forced myself to breathe. Slow. Measured. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

I'd made the call. I'd done what needed doing. Now I had to live with it.

Live being the operative word.

Had to survive tomorrow. Had to survive Danny asking questions. Had to survive whatever came next.

I'd faced down the Brotherhood in a shower. Survived a beating. Manifested magic to keep a door shut when three men tried to break in. Inherited power from a dying Nazi occultist. Built a reputation as a prison witch.

I could survive this.

Had to.

Sleep came eventually. Fitful. Full of dreams that weren't quite dreams. Rochelle's face. Danny's knife. The phone in my hand. Crimestoppers operator asking for my name.

Over and over.

When I woke up Saturday morning, I knew one thing for certain:

Today was going to determine if I lived or died.

Saturday. Yard time.

I walked out into the sun. Hot again. July heat pressing down. Guys scattered in their usual territories. Brotherhood at the weights. Latin Kings on the court. Black Kingsmen in smaller clusters.

And Danny.

Standing near the basketball court. Watching the game. Waiting.

He saw me. Nodded. Gestured with his chin toward the fence. Away from the crowds. Semi-private.

Here we go.

I walked over. Casual. Like this was just another business transaction. Nothing special. Just Thor delivering a report.

My heart was hammering but my hands were steady.

Danny smiled when I got close. That charming smile. "Thor. You got something for me?"

"Yeah." I kept my voice flat. Professional. "Couldn't do it."

The smile faltered. "What?"

"The projection. I tried. Tuesday night, Wednesday night, Thursday night. Couldn't get there. Too far, or something's blocking it. I don't know." I pulled the crumpled twenty from my pocket. Held it out. "Here. I don't take payment for failed jobs."

Danny stared at the twenty. Didn't take it.

"You couldn't get there," he said slowly.

"No."

"You do projections all the time. Parkdale's not that far."

"I know. But it didn't work." I met his eyes. Steady. Sincere. "Maybe it's the distance. Maybe it's interference. Maybe I'm just having an off week. Magic's not a vending machine. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't."

Danny's eyes narrowed. Studying me. Looking for the lie.

I held steady. Didn't blink. Didn't look away.

"You've never failed a job before," he said.

"First time for everything."

"And you tried multiple nights?"

"Yeah. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Same result. Couldn't make the connection. Tether wouldn't extend that far." True, technically. I'd projected Tuesday night. But he didn't need to know that.

Danny took the twenty. Slow. Thoughtful.

"That's disappointing," he said.

"Yeah. Sorry. If I could've done it, I would've." Also true. If the job had been what he said it was—welfare check on his family—I would've done it no problem.

But it wasn't. And I had done something. Just not what he expected.

"Alright." Danny pocketed the twenty. "Appreciate you trying, anyway."

"No problem."

I started to walk away.

"Thor."

I stopped. Turned back.

Danny's smile was back. But different now. Colder. "You hear anything about Rochelle, you let me know, yeah? I'm real worried about her and the baby."

The baby who died six months ago.

"Yeah," I said. "If I hear anything, I'll tell you."

I walked away. Back toward the fence. Away from Danny. Away from that cold smile and those intense eyes.

He suspected something. Maybe not that I'd snitched. But something. I could feel it.

I found my spot by the fence. Gripped the chain-link. Tried to look casual.

The die was cast. The tip was in. Danny thought I'd failed the job. Now it was just waiting.

Waiting to see if cops found the knife.

Waiting to see if Danny got arrested.

Waiting to see if I'd survive what came next.

I stood there in the July heat, watching the yard move around me, and wondered if I'd made the right choice.

Too late now.

Children were the line. I'd drawn it. I'd stood by it.

Now I'd live with the consequences.

Or die with them.