Douglas Wilson loved the laundry. Not the work or the steam, or the lousy trustees strutting like bulls. And he hated the smell of bleach and the funk of ten thousand dirty socks waiting to be boiled. Fact is, he hated washing clothes altogether.

But he loved the laundry.

The chow line moved slowly, hold out your tray and take what they gave, shit-on-a-shingle, must be Tuesday. March to the table, shut up and eat. Doug sat down next to Larry Kills-On-Top and waited till Haffer, the guard, moved out of earshot down the long table.

"I found it."

"Told you it was there." The big Indian took a bite and chewed slowly. He actually smiled. "No one ever believes till they find the door their own self."

"So how come you never took it?"

"Why should I?" Kills-On-Top shrugged, his long black braid swinging. "I'm doing a year and a half for bum checks. Six months from now and I'm back home. You... well, hell, you ain't got nothing to lose. It's the only way you'll ever get out."

Haffer came back, the brim of his flat, navy blue cap tugged low, nothing hanging off his belt but a radio. He passed so close Doug could have stabbed him with a fork. The little turd stopped and watched him chew, stared at him like a bug then moved on. Head games. Doug took another bite and washed it down with lukewarm coffee. "How do you know the door leads out."

"Seen lots of guys go in. Never saw nobody come out."

"So maybe they died in there. Maybe the door don't go nowhere but to a pine box."

"Maybe." Kills-On-Top scraped up the last of the gravy on his tray. "Either way you're out of here."

Either hot or cold in the laundry. Today it was hot, the big machines going round and round. Doug pushed the cart, the canvas hopper heaped with brown-streaked underwear and dirty blue work shirts so stiff they scratched your neck raw. He pushed the cart nice and slow, then stopped to tie his shoe beside the furnace. Monstrous old oil burner heated the whole joint, steam to the laundry, steam to the lock-downs, steam to the warden and the bulls and every man jack inside. Doug glanced back the way he came. Trustee was talking to Haffer, laughing at another one of his dumb-ass jokes. No one was looking. It was now or it was never. He pushed the cart another few feet, then ducked behind the furnace.

It was a tight squeeze, the tangle of copper pipes bouncing with the pressure. He hadn't expected to be as nervous as he was, his legs no better than rubber as he edged around the burner into the forgotten crawlspace. A thick green door with a rusted iron grate instead of a window hung in the shadows. A spider web covered the upper left corner, spotted with flies whose luck had run out, rolled up nice and tight for the long stretch. Doug put his hand on the latch. It was slick with condensation. Just like Kills-On-Top told him, the latch moved, stiff at first, then clicked open sweet as a spring day. He pushed against the heavy door and it swung inward, a cold breeze drifting out the dark maintenance tunnel beyond. Mouth dry, Doug slipped inside.

The hall was narrow and high, no light but what spilled around the door. It reeked of piss and rats and fuel oil, but Doug didn't care. It smelled like freedom. Down he went, one hand against the wall to guide him. Turn left, turn left, turn right, corner after corner right out to the yard wall. Pale sunlight glowed around the next corner. He shook his head and laughed. Another door waited for him, nothing but a rusty dead-bolt between him and the parking lot. It looked cold outside, April in Montana, the gravel dark with melting snow. Doug wished he had grabbed a few of the shirts out of the cart, but it was too late to cry now. A pick-up with a worn out topper was parked in the visitor section forty feet away. It would be easier than he thought. A fast dash across the lot, crawl in the back and hunker down. A little luck and he could ride away before anyone realized he was missing, then set out on foot until he could steal a ride. It was going to be a bitch, but it beat rotting inside the Graybar Hotel until his balls shriveled.

"Come on, Dougie," he muttered, "don't be a puss."

He grabbed the doorknob and turned. The wood was swollen with age. He bumped the door with his shoulder and it popped open. Water off the roof splashed against his face, the breeze fat with snow and truck fumes. Doug gathered his nerves and stepped over the threshold.

And found himself behind the furnace in the prison laundry.

Something that might have been goulash covered his tray. Doug barely noticed, too busy looking for Kills-On-Top. The tall, broad shouldered man seemed surprised when Doug sat down next to him. "I tried the door."

"Yeah?" Kills-On-Top didn't turn his head. "The one in the laundry?"

"Hell yes, the one in the laundry." Doug wanted to be mad at someone. "Guess what? It dumped me right back where I started." He took a bite and scowled. Something caught his eye across the room. Haffer moved through the line, tray in hand, and sat down with the trustees. He was wearing a pale blue work shirt. No belt, no radio, no stiff, navy blue hat. "What's up with Haffer? He just sat down with the trustees."

"Why wouldn't he?" Kills-On-Top's black eyes narrowed. "Little weasel's been working for the man since I've been in."

A bell rang and a thousand men stood up, grabbed their trays and shuffled toward the wide double doors. Doug dumped his uneaten supper in the trash and shuffled along with them, back to his cell, back to his bunk, sleep perchance to dream. Tomorrow. He'd take the door tomorrow, and this time, he'd get it right.

The morning moved slow. Haffer and the other trustees strutted around the laundry, poking into everything. Doug stayed busy folding clothes, fighting the temptation to stare at the furnace. Finally, just before noon, he saw his chance. He loaded his cart and parked it next to the crawlspace, snatched a couple shirts off the top and ducked behind the boiler. The green door waited, hinges groaning as he pushed it open and slipped inside the narrow corridor.

It was noisy in the darkness. Water ran in pipes above his head while voices filtered through the walls, too muffled to understand. He paused to get his bearings and swore he heard Warden McAullie on the other side, dictating to that little secretary of his. Doug closed his eyes and dreamed about her. Long, sleek legs, all the better to squeeze you till you begged, my dear. He could taste her musk in his sex-starved imagination. He'd have a dozen like her once he got clear of this place. The thought of it strengthened his resolve, and he hurried toward the final door leading to the parking lot.

It had snowed in the night, and Doug pulled on the shirts he had stolen, one over the other. The pick-up truck was gone, but it didn't matter. A delivery van sat across the lot, the roll down back open and inviting. He took a deep breath and opened the door. "Now or never, Dougie boy." He stepped over the threshold.

The stink of bleach and body odor washed over him. Doug blinked, the sunlight on snow gone, replaced by the flickering lights he'd been living under for the last three years. He wanted to scream. His cart was still parked in front of the furnace, hiding the crawlspace. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing?" Haffer poked in the chest. He was still wearing prison blues, was still an arrogant little turd. "You trying to get us all stripped searched?"

"Go piss up a rope." Doug returned Haffer's icy stare. "Want to get out of my way? I've got laundry to move."

"Yeah?" Haffer glared but stepped aside. "Be my guest, asshole. Just don't screw up lunch for the rest of us. I'm hungry."

"Whatever." Doug pushed the heavy cart toward the sorting table. The noon bell rang and he got in line. They moved like ants, single file, through the doors, down the hall into the cafeteria. He picked up a tray and a cup, poured it full of coffee and moved along. A glob of runny potatoes landed on the plastic tray. Doug glanced up, shocked to see Kills-On-Top on the other side of the steel counter, ladle in hand. A hair net covered his glossy black hair, his thick glasses smudged with grease.

"When did you start working in the chow line?"

"What do you care, butt-head?" Kills-On-Top frowned. "You're holding up the line."

More confused than before, Doug took his tray to a table and sat down next to a con he didn't know and ate in silence. Nothing was right. Haffer was a con. Kills-On-Top was slopping chow. The more he thought about it, the madder he became. Somebody was yanking his chain. Lunch bell rang again and he stood up with the others, dumped his tray and marched back to the laundry. His cart sat where he left it, and he went back to folding shirts into nice flat stacks. At three minutes after two, he trundled the empty cart back toward the furnace and ducked behind it.

The door felt as if it hadn't been opened in years. Same corridor, same rat piss and death stench. Doug hurried down the twisting path, the turns burned in his mind. No side branches, no missed doors, nothing but cinder block and water pipes. He jogged the last forty feet to the exit. Rain ran down the window, coffee-colored slush covering the parking lot. Cold air wrapped around him as he opened the door, backed up a couple paces, then jumped over the threshold, not caring if anyone saw him or not.

Doug stumbled and fell to his knees on the laundry's yellowed linoleum.

"Hey, you..." A guard at the door pointed at him. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. I tripped."

"Well, trip your ass into line, okay. Shift's over."

Doug stared at the clock. He hadn't been gone more than ten minutes, but the hands read five to five. Too confused to argue, he queued up with the rest and shuffled out the door.

He found Kills-On-Top in the yard the next morning, walking slow circuits around the basketball court, nose stuck in a book. Doug almost didn't recognize him. His long hair was streaked with gray, his broad shoulders bunched around his neck. He fell in step beside him.

"When did you become a bookworm?"

"What's it to you?"

"Hey, don't get pissed." Doug widened the space between them. "What are you reading?"

Kills-On-Top tilted the book so he could read the cover. A skinny man in a wheelchair lolled on the cover. "'A Brief History of Time.' You got a problem with that?"

"Hell no." Doug tried to laugh. "Never figured you for a physics nut, that's all."

The Indian stopped walking and closed the book. "Where did you come from?"

"You know damn well where I'm from," Doug said. "Miles City. I tried to knock over the bank in Forsythe and wound up killing a cop."

"No." Kills-On-Top stuffed the paperback in his back pocket. "I mean where did you come from just now? You're one of those guys from the door, aren't you."

The air seemed to chill, and Doug pulled his denim jacket tighter against the raw April morning. Slowly, his worst fears resolved, the strangeness piling up around him. "You really don't know me, do you."

"Nope." Kills-On-Top nodded discretely at the nearest tower. "Keep walking. Bulls are watching." They joined the flow of bored men making endless circuits around the yard. "You come out that door, didn't you? The one in the laundry."

"You know about the door?"

Kills-On-Top shrugged. "Seen lots of guys come out of it. They usually don't stick around long before they go right back in."

"Back where?" Doug sensed this version of his friend knew more than he was saying. "Where does that door lead to?"

"Maybe, it doesn't go nowhere." Kills-On-Top pulled the book back out of his pocket and tapped the cover. "Maybe you should ask when it goes to." Before Doug could say anything, he continued. "Look, I don't got anymore answers than you do. Who knows what kind of stuff the government installed in here when they built this joint. Maybe they needed to get rid of some things they didn't want to talk about, you know?"

The bell rang, two long, annoying buzzes. Men gathered up by the door, the work shift about to start. Doug's pulse raced. "I ain't following what you're saying."

"Look..." Kills-On-Top paused. "All I'm saying is there are doors and there are doors. Could be that one ain't nothing but one big loop. Takes you out of one reality and into another."

"That's nuts."

"Hey, you're the one who don't know how he got here." They marched past the wide doors, out of the cold and into the gloom. Kills-On-Top turned in the opposite direction from the Laundry. Doug grabbed his sleeve.

"Just tell me one thing? Sooner or later, one of these doors is going to let me outside, right?" Doug waited, his desperation growing. "That's the way it works isn't it?"

"I don't know." The big Indian pulled away. "Some doors, you just got to walk through alone."

He abandoned stealth, caution no longer an option. Again and again he charged through the doorway only to find himself back into the laundry. People stared as he tumbled out of the crawlspace, drenched in sweat, his hair plastered against his forehead. Sometimes they were people he knew. Sometimes they weren't. Once, Kills-On-Top swung a mop at him and clipped him behind the knee. Another time, Haffer met him, a guard again, shotgun in hand. Doug fled behind the furnace, cringing as the shotgun's action snap closed, expecting to feel buckshot tear through his skull. He shut the door and bounded down the corridor, heedless of everything but the need to move.

Doug ran until his lungs burned, fell over a discarded two by four and twisted his ankle. He stood up, bit his lower lip to keep from screaming in pain and trudged down the corridor, dragging his aching left ankle.

"This ain't happening." Doug reached the end of the tunnel and put his hand on the forgotten door. It refused to budge. "No! Damn it, no!

He pulled harder, pulled until his fingers ached. Finally, the ancient portal broke open. Dust swirled around him. Expecting nothing more than another trip to the laundry, Doug shut his eyes and stepped through.

Cold air. Rich, free air. Doug opened his eyes and stared in bald-faced wonder. He was outside the prison walls, outside the door and it's endless looping. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. His ankle threatened to fold, but he didn't care. All that mattered now was to get away, to leave this place and never look back. Across the muddy parking lot he jogged, limping, desperate to put distance between himself and the blank gray walls. A mile down the road alfalfa fields and hay meadows beckoned, the Interstate so close he could feel the trucks rumble past. It was so close. So damned close.

"That's far enough."

Doug stopped in the middle of the parking lot and turned around. A ring of men closed on him, guards with shotguns raised. Kills-On-Top was with them, hair cut short, his guard's uniform tight around his massive shoulders. Haffer was there, too, dressed in a cheap pin-stripe suit, the serge so blue it seemed black in the afternoon sunlight. He swung his head back and forth, clucking as if he had caught a dog rolling in something dead.

"Looks like we got another door jumper, Warden." Kills-On-Top pointed his shotgun casually at the ground.

"It does look that way." Haffer studied Doug a moment. "Take him inside with the others." Doug started to laugh, deep, aching convulsions that stabbed him in the ribs. Haffer raised an eyebrow. "You find the idea of going back to prison amusing?"

"Something like that." Doug let Kills-On-Top handcuff him, then walked quietly back to the main entrance. The electric gates slid open and he stepped through, waiting patiently as the cuffs were removed. Again, they started down the corridor, his mind spinning in ever tightening circles. "You might as well stick me in the laundry now. It's where I'll be going anyhow."

"Laundry?" Warden Haffer smiled maliciously. "We contract all our dirty clothes out of the prison. I prefer to see my boys doing more," he paused. "Productive labor. Put him in Road Gang Three and see that he gets a nice shovel."

A second gate slid open, grating on the rails while Kills-On-Top shoved him from behind so hard his feet left the cold, concrete floor. Doug barely had time to glance at what had once been a laundry room. It was empty, even the furnace gone, nothing left inside but an old canvas-sided cart and a bricked up hole where a door had once been.

The End

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