Ellis Prison, Huntsville, Texas. Fisha looked through the small window of his cell, his dream of one day becoming president shattered. He sighed. A choking feeling washed over him. A tear trickled from his left eye. He sniffed as if to hold back the emotions that continued to run through his soul like a scythe.

It wasn't that he feared death: no. It was because he knew he was going to die without ever proving his innocence. Overcome, he shut his eyes. He felt as if a great weight was pressing down on his head. He tried, as he had done on several occasions on that day, to slip into a meditative trance. Unfortunately, as before, he wasn't able to.

"Someone help me!" he muttered and thought he heard a reassuring voice. He looked around the cell and saw no one. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, Oh please! he admonished himself. I'll not become mad. Now I'm beginning to hear voices. I must be strong. He drew himself together and took a deep, controlled breath. He wanted to walk back to his bed, but he changed his mind and stood there, expecting the cell door to open at any minute.

Fisha Bayu was a thirty-four-year-old African male with skin the color of ebony. Standing at six-seven, he was lean and healthy, like many men from Tika, found mostly along the Nile River in the southern part of a country called Zedoba. He had an oval face on which sat a straight nose. His eyes were small and white and his hair was short and tightly kinked. He had been fasting for a week now, refusing to go to the dining hall, instead choosing to spend most of his time looking for answers through the Plexiglas window of his five-by-nine cell.

Dressed in a red jumpsuit, the standard attire for death row inmates, Fisha was still looking through the small window of his cell, replaying, perhaps for the last time, how he had come to be here.

After the sentence eight years ago, Fisha was hurtled into a prison van from Houston to Huntsville's Estelle prison, the first stop for newly-condemned prisoners. He remembered how, when he finally arrived at Ellis Prison, he was kept on a suicide watch in his cell for two weeks, and how the prison doctor made frequent visits to see if he was taking the prescribed antidepressants on time. He smiled mildly when he recalled how Murdock, the executioner at Huntsville, began to frequent his cell and read scriptures from the Bible with him. His mind was still on Murdock when the cell door opened and six beefy men in helmets and caged face shields walked in.

"It's time to go, boy." The husky voice echoed in his ears.

Obediently, Fisha walked over to the door and immediately recognized the point man on the squad, a sadistic and brutal burly correctional officer called McArthur-Sergeant Peter McArthur. Sudden fear and rage glowed inside Fisha as his eyes met the fiery eyes of the sergeant. McArthur was a muscular giant who used his strength to subdue inmates. Only three nights ago, Fisha had watched him wrestle with a notorious inmate called The Terminator in the cell across from his. He had watched Sergeant McArthur, in the company of five other guards, overpower the inmate and pepper gas him repeatedly. Fisha later heard that the inmate's lungs were damaged so severely it was feared he wouldn't survive.

In hopes of avoiding a similar treatment, Fisha did not put up any resistance. He extended his hands to be cuffed.

"He's a yellow-belly," McArthur said fiercely. "Search him."

As the guards stripped him naked, he seemed motionless as a statue, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He opened his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair; he showed them the bottoms of his feet. He lifted his testicles and spread his buttocks before getting dressed. Earlier he had been given a clean uniform, underwear, socks and a towel. He had taken a shower, but had refused to eat.

"How are you today, boy?" McArthur asked as he handcuffed Fisha.

Fisha cast a contemptuous look at him. "Fine," he replied firmly.

McArthur burst out laughing. "Fine, fine? Don't give me that bull. You can't possibly be fine on a day such as this. You must be scared to hell."

The chains rattled as two guards hobble-chained him ankle-to-ankle.

"See, you're trembling like a leaf," McArthur teased, and again laughed, his beer eyes sparkling in the dimness.

Fisha shook his head and smiled frostily. "No. I am not. Not one bit. I'm not afraid to die for a crime I did not commit. I'm innocent. But if it is God's wish that I should die, so be it."

McArthur sneered. "Oh, don't start that bullshit. You punks are all the same. You kill and then believe the man upstairs will forgive your bloody sins. That's the problem with this world. You have all these southern Bible-crazy rednecks hanging around jails trying to convert killers. They're all just a bunch of hypocrites who go overboard so they can fill up their churches."

They began to lead Fisha out of the cell. McArthur, who was holding the door for them to pass, was still talking. "You seriously think the man upstairs is as tolerant as to forgive morons like you? No, He's not. He told the world not to kill because life is precious, my friend. Once lost, it's gone. Kaput. Can't be restored. That's why He said He'll throw dingheads like you into the hottest furnace on earth and your death will be worse than tonight's."

They had just left the cell when Fisha suddenly stopped.

"Come on, dimwit, move!" McArthur exclaimed and pushed him. "What the hell are you stopping for?"

Fisha staggered. "I forgot my Bible."

McArthur pushed him again and exploded. "Keep moving. Forget the Bible. You'll get one in hell."

Fisha was immovable. "No please, I need to take my Bible," he insisted, looking McArthur in the eye.

McArthur was going to punch Fisha in the face, but chose not to. "Can someone please get his Bible before I burst his head?"

One of the guards walked back into the cell and quickly emerged with the Bible. McArthur grabbed it from the guard.

"Here you are!" McArthur shoved the Bible in Fisha's hands. "Now move your ass!"

Surrounded by the guards, Fisha shuffled along the catwalk and the sound of the chains aroused the other inmates.

"The African's off to the big jab," yelled a voice from a cell they had just passed. He banged on his cell door and soon everyone was banging and hollering-a show of respect for the condemned man.

McArthur listened to the noise with fascination. "You see how popular you are?" he said, smiling. "All these bastards are gonna miss you."

They descended the metal stairs until they came to Reception, where a white female prison clerk handed him some papers.

"You have to read and sign them," she said, avoiding eye contact.

Fisha didn't bother to read. He quickly signed them and put the pen down.

She lifted her eyes and looked at him. "I'm sorry. You are such a wonderful man."

Fisha knew her by name. "You, too, Joan. You've been wonderful."

In a clear violation of policy at Ellis, the clerk walked around the reception desk and hugged him. "Goodbye, Fisha," she whispered fondly. "We'll all miss you."

"Me too," he said grimly. "I shall miss you all."

Outside Ellis, Fisha took a deep breath, which he held for a moment then slowly released. Sandwiched between the two guards, he walked to the waiting jail van, where four other guards grabbed his arms and legs and tossed him inside. He slammed against the far wall of the van and hung there, his legs akimbo. When the metal doors were shut, he found himself in the valley of death.