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One who is like God.
That was what Miguel’s name meant.
Chico had informed him so one afternoon, when laughter was still easy between them. Even back then, Chico hadn’t really known why he’d chosen to search Miguel’s name. Maybe it was because the guy had been sitting next to him—maybe it was because his restive fingers had simply needed something to type. In Emerald City, computer time was a privilege, not a right; those hunks of overheating metal were expensive machines and a guy needed to be trained on them before he could open the World Wide Web in search of pornography—and even then, not really find it.
There was a thing called a Firewall.
There was another thing called irony; before coming to prison, Chico had never used a computer before, though he’d seen them around plenty, on TV and at the police precinct. He had learned to type on an IBM Selectric in Typewriting, maybe the only class he’d ever aced. In Oswald, all that really meant was that he could type MIGUEL in one second flat, while Alvarez himself poked the keys one at a time.
One who is like God.
On another day, in the same room, sitting in the same spot, Chico resented the fingers that had brought about that particular revelation. It skewed his view of the situation—made his hate feel like worship—turned his desire for revenge into a kind of devotion. If Miguel was like God, then logic ruled that he’d made a follower out of Chico, who recited his grudges like prayer, and let the memory of a deceptively dull blade against his throat keep his faith burning red hot.
“Wouldn’t it be satisfying just to stick me?”
Chico didn’t waver. “Immensely fucking satisfying.”