The Money Orders, the Razor, and the Wedding That Wasn’t: Rivers and East Carroll, Part 7 The day they gave me a razor to shave, I popped it open and took out the blade. That’s how bad it had gotten. I was in the hole at Rivers Correctional—Concordia Parish—locked in a box, cut off from the world, under investigation for stealing thirteen thousand dollars in money orders from the prison itself. My mail was restricted. My phone calls were gone. I didn’t know what day it was. I didn’t know if it was ever going to end. And in that particular kind of silence—the kind that presses on you like water—I broke. But I’m still here. And that matters. Let me back up. Rivers Rivers Correctional sits in Concordia Parish and houses mostly state inmates—the ones I’d heard about but never really ran with until then. The compound was literally split down the middle: Shreveport boys on one side, New Orleans boys on the other. Two whole worlds on one yard, and neither side could claim ...
