They reached the parking lot in front of the prison, passing a black van with white lettering that read, CORONER’S OFFICE, MONTGOMERY COUNTY, then a row of idling Department of Corrections buses, with wire grates over their windows. The women climbed the steps to the entrance, which had a grimy concrete overhang, and walked to the smudged glass doors of the entrance.

Christine opened one door, which was old, its wood frame weathered, and let Lauren go first, then followed her into a dingy reception room that was a very long rectangle, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lighting and small windows at the far end. The air smelled warm and dirty; if it was air-conditioned, it was too weak to do any good. A smattering of visitors talked quietly as they waited on old-fashioned wooden benches, under a sign that read NO SPANDEX, NO HOODIES. Tan linoleum covered the floor, and old beige lockers ringed the far side of the room. The place gave off the overall impression of being stop-time, circa 1960s, and oddly small-town for a maximum-security prison.

Christine spotted a large wooden reception desk across the room, staffed by a female officer wearing a black uniform with the yellow patch of the Department of Corrections, which looked incongruous with the pink scrunchy around her light brown ponytail. Christine took the lead to the reception desk, placed her driver’s license on the counter, and introduced them both, then said, “We’re here to see Zachary Jeffcoat. We called ahead to be put on his visitors’ list.”

“Sure. Sign in, please.” The corrections officer smiled as she slid a clipboard with an old-school sign-in log across the counter, and Christine signed in while Lauren handed over her driver’s license. The corrections officer examined the licenses. “You ladies come all the way from Connecticut?”

“Yes.”

“What newspaper you with?”

Christine told herself to remain calm. “I’m freelance, I’m a stringer.”

“Oh. You’re the third reporter today.”

“Really?” Christine asked, surprised. She realized it helped her credibility as a cover story, too.

“Mr. Jeffcoat is our celebrity inmate. He made the Most Wanted List. We don’t get many of those. He’s here in our holding area, on account of his dangerousness. He should be at Chester County Prison but they’re minimum security.” The corrections officer slid their driver’s licenses back across the counter. “His mail already started, too. He had some waiting before he got here. Wait ’til you see him, you’ll know why.” The corrections officer lifted a plucked eyebrow, then gestured at the lockers. “Car keys go in there, then take a seat. He’ll be brought up in a minute. He just was sent back down after his girlfriend visited.”

“His girlfriend was here?”

“Yes, you just missed her. A pretty redhead.” The corrections officer winked. “He’s a busy boy.”

Christine and Lauren exchanged glances, then went to the lockers, stowed the car keys, and sat down on the bench. There were ten benches half full of people, of all races and sizes. Christine caught snippets of a variety of languages, English, Spanish, and others she couldn’t identify. Children fidgeted on the benches, swinging their legs or playing with toys, which made her despair. She tried not to think about what the life of her child would be like if Jeffcoat was her donor. Her hand went reflexively to her belly, and she prayed her baby didn’t end up here, in a maximum-security prison.

“Zachary Jeffcoat!” a male corrections officer called out, as he stuck his head out a doorway on the left.

Christine and Lauren rose together, and the male corrections officer motioned them forward toward a grimy metal door, which he opened with a loud ca-chunk. They passed through the doorway together and entered a narrow room that held an old wooden table with wooden bins, in front of a metal detector.

“Ladies, take off any belts, shoes, and jewelry, and put them in the bins. Put your notepads in, too.”

“Thank you.” Christine and Lauren complied, the both of them in their agreed-upon outfit of jeans, white shirts, and dark blazers, which they had on with flats. They passed through the metal detector, grabbed their legal pads, were handed two yellow golf pencils, and had their right hands stamped and read by an ultraviolet light, then they were led through one locked door, then the next, under the gaze of prison guards silhouetted behind a smoked glass panel. The two women were escorted to a narrow staircase with painted cinder-block walls and descended concrete steps. The air grew hotter the lower they went, as if it were hell itself, and a standing fan with grimy white plastic blades provided no relief, merely circulating hot air.

They walked down a short hallway that led to a large, harshly lighted visiting room the shape of an L, filled with old, mismatched chairs. A smattering of young women, kids, and older women sat talking with inmates in brown jumpsuits who wore no handcuffs. A sign read, Inmates and Visitors May Embrace When Meeting and Departing Only. A brawny young corrections officer stood guard, sitting on an elevated wooden chair against the wall, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and black pants with a gray line down the side. His eyes scanned the room under the black bill of his black cap, a walkie-talkie crackling in its belt holster.

“Ladies, this way. This is general visiting. You’re in the back.” The male corrections officer ushered Christine and Lauren past the chairs, and Christine spotted an incongruous mural on the wall, depicting an idyllic stone archway with a cobalt-blue river winding into the distance.

“That’s unusual,” she said, pointing to the mural.

“It’s a fake backdrop. Inmates can use it when they take pictures with their families.”

“Oh.” Christine took in the amateur art hanging on the cinder-block wall beside the mural, presumably by the inmates; a moonlit ocean, a pastoral landscape, Elvis, an Eagles logo, and a still life of red wine with cheese.

The corrections officer pointed to the left. “If you like murals, outside is one the Mural Arts Program did for us.”

Christine looked to her left, where tall windows overlooked an outdoor area with old picnic tables and ratty blue-and-white umbrellas. On one side was a children’s playground with a bright yellow slide and blue monkey bars, which would have been cheery but for the gray concrete wall topped with spiky concertina wire. On the wall was a colorful mural depicting children at play, which read CHERISH THIS CHILD.

Christine thought again of her baby, then the ultrasound image of its fluttery heartbeat, delicate as gossamer. Her heart beat faster with each step closer to where she would meet Jeffcoat, who could be the baby’s father. She never would have believed she would get to meet their donor, much less in a prison, and the conflicting emotions wrenched at her gut; on the one hand, she was excited to meet the donor, but on the other, horrified that it was in here.