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a handmade basket case

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Reeling senses, flickering spots, difficulty judging depth – everything's so wide and open after her vacation in the six-by-nine. If not for the walls she inches along, she might be nosediving like an aircraft with its engines shot.

Dinah rushes to her side the moment she totters into the visitation room and leads her to a free table.

"I'm so glad to see you," Harley rasps. Taking Dinah's hand in both of hers, she rests her forehead on its back.

"No touching," the guard barks from across the room, but Harley doesn't stir until he steps forward. "Alright, break it up, ladies."

Reluctantly, Dinah extracts her fingers and slides over a can of soda from the vending machine outside. It's warm, but welcome. "What happened? They told me you were in solitary."

"Yeah, just got out." Harley raises the can to the eye that's still somewhat puffy.

"What did you do this time?"

"Nothin'." With a shrug, Harley chugs her soda.

Ever the WPA committee member used to dealing with a lot of bullshit, Dinah patiently waits for an explanation.

"Duela picked a fight. I may have broken her wrist." The can crumples in Harley's death-grip. "Told her I'd hurt anybody who touches my puddin'."

Dinah sits up straighter. "Wait. Christina is here?"

"What? She is?" Harley's head whips around as though she expected to spot her old flame here.

"I'm asking you."

"Huh? Oh! Sorry, solitary messes with my head. I meant my dessert. Duela's always tryin' to snag it."