Chapter 1: The Weight of Duty

As the prison warden sat at his desk perusing some records, a knock interrupted his concentration.

“Come in,” he replied, his voice gravelly and commanding.

His secretary entered, carrying a folder.

“We received a death warrant from the governor,” she stated.

“I'll take care of it,” he responded, accepting the folder and returning to his reading. She hesitated momentarily, sensing the heaviness of the moment. The warden, noticing her lingering presence, looked up.

“Is there anything else?”

“No, sir,” she replied, then added, “Does it ever weigh on you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The executions?”

He met her gaze, his intense stare reflecting years of hardened resolve. The secretary felt a chill, regretting her curiosity.

“It is what it is; I didn’t put them here, they did that themselves.”

Her shock was palpable at his apparent lack of empathy.

“They made choices that led to their convictions. By the time this folder reaches my desk, my options are limited. I ensure every inmate is treated with dignity and that procedures are meticulously followed.”

Stunned into silence, she finally responded, “Anything else?”

“No, ma’am.”

She quickly exited the office, and he resumed his examination of the file, ensuring that every detail was correct.

With two decades of experience behind him and thirteen executions under his belt, he had developed a reliable process.

The following day, the warden arrived at work earlier than usual to review the file once more. The executions themselves did not trouble him, but the thought of making an error that could result in an innocent life being taken haunted him.

The inmate had already been moved to the death house, with family members expected to arrive soon for their final farewells.

The warden remained in his office, close to the phone, acutely aware that a call from the governor or district attorney could come at any moment to halt the execution.

After the inmate's family left, a barber entered to shave the inmate’s head and legs in preparation for the impending procedure. At 4 PM, two trays of food were brought to the inmate, allowing him one last meal in solitude.

At 5 PM, a priest stopped by to pray with the inmate, but he declined. Religion had never been part of his life, and he felt no need to feign belief now. He understood the weight of his actions and accepted his fate without seeking forgiveness.

Just before 6 PM, the warden summoned his secretary.

“I’m heading to the death house. Stay near the phone in case we get a call.”

She nodded, leaving without uttering another word.

Two guards escorted the prisoner down the hall to a small chamber containing the execution apparatus known as “Old Sparky.” They seated him in the chair and began strapping him in, first securing his arms and then his legs. The prisoner offered no resistance; he had come to terms with his destiny.

Once he was securely fastened, they placed a sponge on his head, lowered the metal dome, and strapped it in place with a leather strap. The warden entered, reading the death warrant aloud. After ver