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A little nonsensical fun based on 1950s Sc-Fi.

"You'd be surprised. I have family I'll never see either," she looked sadly at the sandy floor. "I've been here so long and they never send me anything."

"I think because you deserve what you got," a single tear leaked from his dry sockets. "You deserve everything you get for what you did."

"Just like you?"

"No!" he shouted indignantly. "I mean, yes!" he backtracked and slammed his fist futiley against the door frame. "My sentence befits conspiracy charges! I just didn't do them!"

"I was sentenced for falling in love too easily and with the wrong kind of men," she nodded softly. "I didn't know how much the feds were looking into it."

"But their pillow talk," he started to recount her crimes but she stopped him.

"They taped them all, they knew I didn't ask anything from either man. I just wanted their love," she started crying herself. "The press loves sex and national security was the perfect vehicle for it." His defense eroded slightly upon hearing this but his posture remained stiff and unforgiving. "Once the media said I was guilty, the courts had to follow up," she shrugged her shoulders.

"The same happened to me I suppose," he remembered the dreadful imprisonment many, many months ago. "I didn't say goodbye to my daughters when they took me away and they didn't let them in the court room," he laughed hopelessly. "They reluctantly let my lawyer visit me in prison, barely let my wife, and never my kids. But sure enough, everyday, I got five or six of the day's newspapers and every one proclaimed my guilt." They shared a solemn silence, the full moon above them slammed the ocean against the shore like a metronome with no accompaniment. "It makes you feel impotent, ya know? You know you're innocent but everyone sees it through such a distorted filter that they become just as convinced to the contrary."

"May I come in, please?" He looked into her hopeful eyes, the same eyes that graced every newspaper in the nation. He remembered the day off the government, military, and most businesses gave their employees to celebrate the inevitable verdict with columns of smoke from countless backyard barbecues and grills. Back then, Kitty Keeler's tears were mocked with patriotic satisfaction as they streaked the carefully applied make up down her face and dribbled from her chin when they dragged her out of the jubilant courtroom.

"Sure, c'mon in," he unblocked the doorway and stretched out his arm to the nearby chair. She daintily entered and sat down as he shut the door and did likewise on his cot. At last he had someone to talk with. Another soul who suffered as much as him. At first he entertained her grief as that of a remorseful harlot but as the months turned to another year, he came to see her as a kindred spirit. The pleasant surprise that, for someone whose expertise was assumed to lie solely with other men, she was an avid reader who had a full library like his own; this essentially doubled his collection and pleased him greatly.

They spent more and more time in the other person's shack in comfortable silence when they read or in the other's arms as they cried. One night, after one particularly thorough and enlightening conversation people seldom have and rarely acknowledge, they held each other for over an hour, whispering their mutual thanks. Under normal social conditions, they could freely associate with literally thousands of potential persons, sharing their thoughts and attentions with each one. In the busy American lifestyle, it was often an honor to receive any uninterrupted time from loved ones. On the island however, with no one else to share, and no one to interrupt, they each received undivided attention that, while an assumption of their new life, was by no means taken for granted.

News of Drey's appeal grew dimmer with every letter until Lucy stopped writing about it altogether.

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