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“San Quentin Exodus, Bill Smoot’s deeply compelling novel, introduces readers to the world of prison but really to the much bigger world of his characters’ lives, inviting us to follow the trajectory of each as it unfolds with surprise and mystery, love and loss. Like all good literature, San Quentin Exodus ultimately asks us to reconsider everything we believe—or think we believe. Smoot is the consummate storyteller: restrained, wise, compassionate. —Lori Ostlund, author of Are You Happy?

“In San Quentin Exodus, Bill Smoot takes us deeply into the world of incarceration and rehabilitation, with its pitfalls and fragile possibility. Smoot has delivered two unforgettable characters whose encounter alters the trajectory of each of their lives. The social and economic circumstances that lead to the young James’s incarceration, and the disturbing story of his long tenure behind bars, suggest the abject limitations of our current penal system, while the well-intentioned Allison, who tutors James in the prison’s college program, draws upon the perspective of her own marginalization to risk everything in the story’s dramatic final act. —Angela Pneuman, author of Lay it on My Heart

“The characters are so strong, this would be an excellent read even if the book had no plot. Smoot creates complex portraits of emotionally rich lives in short, clear sentences reminiscent of Hemingway. To be able to convey such richness with such simple prose requires instinct and skill. The writing style makes the book easy to read, while the story and characters make it hard to put down….The world needs more writing like this.” — Andrew Diamond, author of Grid Zero

James lies in his bunk thinking. Williams is snoring below him. He listens to the usual prison sounds—a key in a lock, a CO’s bootsteps echoing on the concrete, inmates moaning in their sleep, an occasional angry word shouted to no one but heard by all. The roar of flushing toilets. This will be the soundtrack for the rest of his life.

He thinks about Allison, how she teared up. Not since Mama died has anyone fully felt what he felt. The guys who heard about his denial got on board with his anger and his disgust, but they didn’t feel his feelings. There’s too much pain in prison. Anyone who starts feeling the pain of others will collapse under the weight.

For thirty years he has survived within the fortress of his self, fending off forces that lie in wait. Now the enemy has tunneled inside, sapping his determination, his hope, his strength. Even his mind feels defeated. Nothing is left but surrender.

Lying here, his hands behind his head, he has an epiphany: the only way out is to jump from the fifth tier of the next cell block. It does not seem like an idea coming from inside his head, but from some over-voice stating what cannot be denied. Maybe it’s the voice of God. It is said on the yard that hope is the one thing they can never take from you. James does not know whether hope has been taken or by whom, but he knows that hope is gone. He recalls Hamlet’s words:

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world.

He drifts toward sleep thinking that death is devoutly to be wished. The possibility of parole was the thin cord holding him up. Now that it has broken, he does not want to continue life in prison. The only way out of this unbearable life is death. He wonders if there is an afterlife. Maybe he will be reunited with Spike.