After meeting Lois Lowry at ALA, I kept thinking about the quiet power of dystopian fiction, the kind where no one believes they are being cruel because the cruelty has learned gentle language. I also found myself thinking about 1984, and how power often begins by controlling words.
This story came from a question I sit with often in my work: What would a world without prisons look like if we removed the cages, but kept the habit of deciding who has earned care?
The Fair Chance Lottery is fiction. It is not a policy paper, prediction, or argument against repair. It is a thought experiment about reentry, disability access, public sympathy, surveillance, storytelling, and the ways even well-intentioned systems can make people perform deservingness before receiving the basics of life.
I’ll be sharing it in five installments, two parts at a time. This first installment introduces Mark, a Deaf man entering a society that proudly says it has ended prisons — only to find that freedom still has categories.
The Fair Chance Lottery
Part One: The Museum of Harm and Healing
The prison had become a museum, but Mark still had to walk through a metal detector to receive his fair chance.
The van let him out two blocks away because the street in front of the old building had been closed for a school visit. Mark stood on the curb with his release folder tucked under one arm and watched a line of children move through the front gate in yellow shirts.
The gate no longer locked. That was the first thing people liked to say about it.
It had been painted white. The old wire had been removed and replaced with panels of clear glass. Words had been carved into the glass in tall, careful letters.
ACCOUNTABILITY.
RESTORATION.
REPAIR.
COMMUNITY.
Above the entrance, a banner stretched between two stone pillars.
TWENTY YEARS WITHOUT CAGES.
The children looked up at it the way children looked at things adults told them were important. Some of them were bored. Some were whispering. One boy dragged the toe of his shoe through the gravel and was gently corrected by a teacher with silver bracelets and a soft voice.
“Remember,” the teacher said, “this was once a place where people were kept behind locked doors.”
A girl near the front raised her hand.
“Even at night?”
“Yes,” the teacher said. “Even at night.”
The children made small sounds of horror. Mark looked at the building and said nothing.
He was tall enough that strangers usually looked up before they decided what to think of him. His hair fell past his shoulders, brown and loose, softening a face people were always trying to read too quickly. In the glass panels, he saw himself standing there in jeans, white sneakers, and an open jacket he had been given that morning because the one he came in with had disappeared sometime between property review and release.
It was not cold, but he kept the jacket on.
The teacher pointed toward the watchtower.
“That is now the Reflection Deck,” she told the children. “Visitors can go up and look out over the city. It reminds us that safety should never mean separation.”
One child asked, “What did it mean before?”
The teacher paused.
Mark knew the pause. He had seen it in officers, counselors, doctors, volunteers, reporters. The pause before a person chose the cleanest word.
“It meant we had not yet learned a better way,” she said.
The children accepted this. Children accepted many things if the voice was calm enough.
Mark shifted the folder under his arm. The papers inside were warm from his body. He had read them three times in the van, though reading them had changed nothing.
Certificate of Civic Reentry.
Accountability Completion Notice.
Temporary Identity Restoration.
Fair Chance Lottery Appearance Order.
He had been free since 8:12 that morning. The time was printed on the first page in blue ink.
At 8:13, someone had handed him the folder.
At 8:17, someone had told him the Lottery studio expected him by noon.
At 8:19, someone had asked if he felt grateful.
A man crossed the plaza toward him, broad and solid, with a graying beard and a cap pulled low against the sun. His plaid shirt hung open over a faded tee. He moved like someone used to waiting outside buildings where other people made decisions.
Sid lifted one hand when he saw him.
Mark lifted his back.
Sid stopped a few feet away and spoke while signing, slower than most hearing people remembered to. His signs were not perfect, but they were clear enough to show effort.
“You made good time.”
Mark looked past him at the line of children entering the museum.
“Was I allowed to be late?” he signed.
Sid gave a short smile. It almost stayed.
“Not today.”
Mark nodded. He liked Sid more for not pretending.
Sid glanced at the folder under Mark’s arm. “You have everything?”
Mark opened it and showed him the papers.
“Good,” Sid said. “Keep those with you. They’ll scan them inside.”
Mark looked toward the museum again. The children were disappearing through the entrance now, one by one. Above the door, where the old prison name had once been carved into stone, new letters had been installed in brushed steel.
THE MUSEUM OF HARM AND HEALING
Behind the glass, the gift shop lights were already on.
Mark could see rows of postcards. A rack of shirts. Small white candles in boxes printed with the words NEVER AGAIN.
Sid followed his gaze.
“It helps people remember,” he said.
Mark signed, “Do they?”
Sid did not answer immediately. Then he said, “Some do.”
That was another thing Mark liked about Sid. He did not lie unless his job required it.
They began walking toward the studio. It was built beside the museum, where the courthouse parking lot used to be. The new building had wide windows and smooth gray stone. A large screen above the doors showed tonight’s broadcast announcement.
THE FAIR CHANCE LOTTERY
Live Community Review — 7 PM
Everyone Deserves a Fair Chance
Below that, in smaller letters:
Tonight, you help decide what fairness looks like.
People were already lined up outside the audience entrance. Some held coffee. Some checked their phones. A few wore pins shaped like open hands. No one looked cruel. That made it harder.
One woman saw Mark and smiled at him with sudden brightness, as though he had already done something brave.
Mark looked away.
Sid slowed beside him. “Remember, this isn’t a trial.”
Mark looked at him.
Sid repeated it, more carefully. “It isn’t a trial. The trials ended with the old system. You completed accountability. You are not here to be sentenced.”
Mark waited.
Sid exhaled through his nose. “Tonight is about support priority. Housing, work placement, medical care, communication access, family contact, community certification. The audience helps determine order of need.”
Mark signed, “Order of deserving.”
Sid’s jaw tightened.
“That isn’t the language.”
“No,” Mark signed. “It never is.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. A group of audience members passed nearby, laughing gently at something on a phone. One of them glanced at Mark’s hands, then at his face, then quickly away.
Sid lowered his voice even though Mark was watching his hands.
“You just need to get through the room.”
Mark looked at the studio doors. They opened and closed without a sound.
“It isn’t prison,” Sid said.
Mark waited again.
Sid’s hands were still.
Then he added, “But you still have to survive the room.”
Inside, the lobby smelled like lemon cleaner and warm lights. A security guard stood beside the metal detector wearing a blue vest with the Fair Chance emblem on the chest: two open hands beneath a rising sun.
“Welcome,” the guard said.
Sid interpreted quickly.
Mark stepped forward.
“Folder in the tray, please,” the guard said. “Phone, keys, watch, loose items.”
Mark placed the folder down first. Then the temporary phone they had issued him. Then the bus card. Then the folded paper with his mother’s number written on it, because he did not yet trust the phone to keep anything.
The guard smiled as he checked the tray.
Somehow the smile made it worse.
Mark stepped through the detector. It beeped.
The guard pointed to his shoes. Mark removed them without being asked twice. He had learned a long time ago that the second request was never really a request.
Sid watched. His face had gone still.
When it was done, the guard handed Mark his things and said, “Good luck tonight.”
Sid signed it.
Mark put the paper with his mother’s number back into his pocket.
Beyond the lobby, the hallway opened into a waiting area. On one wall hung a framed photograph of the last prison closing. People stood outside a different building in the rain, holding candles and signs. Some were crying. Some were cheering. Under the photograph, a plaque read:
THE DAY WE CHOSE BETTER
Across from it, a screen displayed the names of that evening’s participants.
SAM — Housing Priority / Employment Sponsorship / Family Contact
MARK — Communication Access / Medical Support / Community Trust
ALINA — Family Contact / Housing Priority / Civic Restoration
The categories shifted gently beside each name, rearranging themselves in order of projected need.
Mark stared at his own name until the letters blurred.
He had been free since morning.
By evening, freedom had categories.
Part Two: The Orientation Room
A woman in a blue vest led Mark, Sid, and two others down the hallway without introducing herself.
She walked backward for part of it, smiling as she spoke, which made Mark think she had practiced this many times.
“Welcome, everyone. We know tonight is meaningful, and we want you to feel fully supported through the process.”
Sid signed what he could. Mark watched his hands instead of her mouth. The woman’s lips kept forming words that looked soft and official.
Supported.
Process.
Meaningful.
They passed a row of framed photographs. In one, a crowd stood outside a courthouse, holding candles. In another, a child hugged a woman beneath a banner that said RETURN IS REPAIR. In the last, Lorelai stood onstage between two people crying. Her arms were open, but not touching them.
The hallway ended at a small room with no windows.
The woman opened the door.
“Orientation will begin in just a moment.”
The room was warm. Too warm. There were soft gray chairs arranged in a half circle, a low table with sealed water bottles, a bowl of apples, and a screen mounted on the wall. Beside the screen was a poster in pale blue letters.
YOU ARE NOT ON TRIAL.
YOU ARE IN COMMUNITY.
Mark looked at the poster for a long moment.
Then he chose the chair closest to the door.
Sid sat beside him.
Across the room, Sam was already there.
Mark had seen Sam’s name on the screen outside, but the name had not prepared him for the person. Sam was small, bright, and impossible to miss: blue hair swept to one side, black clothes, glasses catching the overhead light, one hand resting on a cane decorated with little silver stickers. They had the look of someone who knew strangers were going to stare anyway and had decided to give them something specific to misunderstand.
Sam looked up and smiled.
“Mark, right?” they said.
Sid began to interpret, but Mark had already caught the shape of his name.
Mark nodded once.
Sam tapped two fingers against their own chest. “Sam.”
Their signs were rough, but present. Better than most. Mark nodded again, this time with less caution.
The fourth participant sat near the water bottles, twisting the cap on one without opening it. She was older than Mark, with tired eyes and a careful braid. Her name tag said ALINA. She did not look at anyone for long.
The woman in the vest glanced at a tablet.
“Your Fair Chance coach may remain with you through orientation,” she said. “After that, participants will proceed to pre-interview, preparation, and live review.”
Sid signed quickly.
Mark watched the woman’s hands. They held the tablet lightly, as if nothing heavy had ever been placed there.
The screen on the wall turned blue.
A soft chime sounded.
Lorelai appeared.
Not in person. Not yet. On the screen she looked almost exactly like she did in the photographs: neat clothes, warm eyes, a calm face arranged into concern. She stood in front of the Fair Chance emblem, two open hands beneath a rising sun.
“Welcome,” Lorelai said.
The captions appeared beneath her.
WELCOME.
Mark noticed the captions were perfect for her.
“Tonight is not about punishment. Punishment belonged to another age. Tonight is about care, responsibility, and the shared work of return.”
Sam leaned back slightly, as though settling in for a show they had already seen.
Lorelai continued.
“Each of you has completed your accountability period. Each of you enters this room as a free person. The Fair Chance Lottery does not decide whether you belong to the community.”
She paused. It was a beautiful pause. The kind that gave people time to believe her.
“It helps the community decide how best to receive you.”
The words stayed on the screen.
HOW BEST TO RECEIVE YOU.
Mark felt Sid shift beside him.
Lorelai lifted one hand, and the image changed. Six words appeared in a circle.
HOUSING
EMPLOYMENT
MEDICAL SUPPORT
COMMUNICATION ACCESS
FAMILY CONTACT
COMMUNITY TRUST
“These supports are not prizes,” Lorelai said. “They are pathways. Because resources must be distributed responsibly, each participant’s support package is prioritized through community voice, readiness measures, and demonstrated need.”
The circle turned slowly.
Mark stared at COMMUNICATION ACCESS until the words moved out of sight.
He raised his hands.
Sid turned toward him.
“Communication access is part of the Lottery?” Mark signed.
Sid’s mouth pressed into a line. “Part of the support package.”
“Voted on?”
“Prioritized.”
Mark looked at him.
Sid looked away first.
On the screen, Lorelai was still speaking.
“You may be asked to share your story. You may be asked to reflect on harm, hope, accountability, and future goals. Remember: there are no wrong stories. There are only honest steps forward.”
Sam made a small sound through their nose. Not quite a laugh.
The woman in the vest did not look up from her tablet.
The screen shifted again. This time, a list appeared under the heading HELPFUL RESPONSE PRACTICES.
Express gratitude.
Acknowledge harm.
Use future-oriented language.
Avoid blame-centered statements.
Show emotional readiness.
Keep answers brief.
Mark read the list twice.
No wrong stories, he thought, unless you told one wrong.
Sid opened the folder in his lap. There were papers inside, marked with tabs. Mark could see his own name at the top of one page.
Sid tapped the page gently.
“These are suggestions,” he said.
Mark waited.
Sid continued. “Not rules.”
Mark waited longer.
Sid gave up pretending. “They’re close to rules.”
Sam smiled again, but this time it was not cheerful.
Sid ran one hand down his beard, then turned back to Mark.
“They want to hear that you understand the process. They want to hear that you’re ready for support. They want to hear that you can work with people.”
Mark signed, “I can work with people.”
“I know.”
“Do they?”
Sid did not answer.
The video ended with Lorelai smiling into the camera.
“Thank you for choosing return. Thank you for choosing repair. Thank you for trusting your community to see you clearly.”
The screen faded to the Fair Chance emblem.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then Alina said, very quietly, “Do they bring them out during family contact, or is it video?”
The woman in the vest looked at her tablet. “That depends on your support level.”
Alina nodded as if she had expected that answer and had hated it before hearing it.
Mark signed to Sid, “Interpreter?”
Sid looked tired already. “The studio uses official captions.”
“For me?”
“For everyone.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“I know.”
Mark waited.
Sid lowered his voice. “They also use Meaning Assistance.”
Sam looked over sharply.
Mark signed, “What is that?”
Sid’s fingers hesitated. “It helps translate responses for public clarity.”
Mark stared at him.
“For clarity,” Sid repeated, though his face no longer believed the word.
Sam leaned forward, both hands resting on the top of their cane.
“It means if you say something messy, they make it smooth,” Sam said.
Sid interpreted, but Mark understood enough before he finished.
Sam shrugged. “Sometimes smooth gets you housing.”
Mark looked at them.
Sam’s smile had changed again. Smaller now. Less for the room.
“First round,” Sam said, “let them think you’re grateful. Second round, let them think you’re honest. Third round, if you still have enough points, you can be complicated.”
Mark signed, “That works?”
Sam’s eyes moved toward the screen, then back.
“No,” they said. “But it works better than telling the truth all at once.”
The woman in the vest tapped something on her tablet. The screen changed without warning.
A clip began to play.
Lorelai stood onstage beside a young man in a brown suit. He was crying hard enough that his shoulders shook. The audience rose to its feet. Words appeared beneath the clip.
CARE WORKS WHEN COMMUNITIES LISTEN.
The young man on the screen covered his face. Lorelai placed one hand near his shoulder, not touching him until he leaned toward her. The audience clapped harder when he did.
Then the camera cut to a small apartment. Sunlight through clean curtains. A bed made with blue sheets. A refrigerator with oranges inside.
The young man’s voice came through the speaker.
“I just want to thank everyone who believed I was ready.”
Mark watched his face more than the apartment.
He knew that face.
It was not joy. Not exactly.
It was the look of a person who had reached shore and knew the people on land were still deciding whether to pull him out of the water.
Sid touched Mark’s arm lightly to get his attention.
“Listen,” Sid said. “I know what you’re thinking.”
Mark doubted that, but he let him continue.
“This is better than what came before.”
Mark looked at the poster again.
YOU ARE NOT ON TRIAL.
Sid’s hands moved carefully.
“Twenty years ago, you would still be behind a wall tonight.”
Mark did not argue. That was the hard part. Sid was right.
Twenty years ago, there would have been no museum. No glass panels etched with gentle words. No Fair Chance emblem. No public vote on whether he should sleep indoors because no one would have asked the public to pretend it was generous.
He would simply have been gone.
Mark looked down at his hands.
Then he signed, “Tonight I have to convince strangers I deserve a door.”
Sid closed the folder.
Across the room, Sam looked away.
The woman in the vest stood.
“Pre-interviews are ready,” she said. “Sam, you’ll be first.”
Sam rose slowly, adjusting their grip on the cane. They smoothed the front of their black shirt, touched their blue hair, and took a breath. It was small, but Mark saw it: the moment Sam gathered themself into someone the room would know how to reward.
At the door, Sam glanced back.
“Don’t start with the thing you care about most,” they said.
Then they went out.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
The screen returned to the emblem: two open hands, a rising sun, no shadow anywhere.
Mark flexed his hands once, then let them fall still.
In the next room, stillness would look safer than the truth.
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