Suzanne Warren rocks lightly on her feet in the yard, sun warming her shoulders as she watches the flow of people around her. Inmates drift between benches, the walkway, and the patch of grass, talking quietly or stretching in the open air.

Suzanne takes it all in, her wide eyes catching every glance, every small movement, as if the world is a puzzle she’s slowly piecing together.

She tilts her head, lips parting slightly, humming a soft rhythm under her breath. Two inmates lean against a railing, chatting, while another slowly paces nearby. Suzanne follows their motions with careful attention, noting who is alert, who is relaxed, and who lingers too long in one spot.

A faint clatter from the walkway draws her gaze. She rocks forward slightly, eyes bright, then settles back, murmuring a line of poetry to herself, letting the words drift on the breeze.

Nothing escapes her notice - every shuffle of feet, every soft laugh, every tilt of a head is cataloged quietly in her mind.