In the piercing, poignant Free: Two Years, Six Lives, and the Long Journey Home, reporter and prolific author Lauren Kessler explores the reality that is mass incarceration in the United States. In her previous book A Grip of Time, Kessler chronicled her experience running a years-long writing group for "lifers" in a maximum-security prison. The trust granted to her by the people in that project, and this one, is remarkable. In Free, Kessler explores six specific individuals' stories, via audio, video and text records, and deeply candid, thorough interviews. Many of their loved ones offer additional perspective. The result is riveting. Unforgettable.

Our incarceration numbers are staggering. "With just 5 percent of the world's population, the United States accounts for close to 25 percent of the world's prison population. One out of every six Latino boys... can expect to go to prison in his lifetime. One out of every three Black kids... will spend time behind bars. (For white kids, the figure is one out of seventeen.)" According to United Nations databases, the U.S. incarceration rate is higher than those in Russia, China and North Korea. "On any given day one-third of adult Americans are either incarcerated, on probation, or on parole."

By focusing on six nuanced portraits, Kessler captures the complex panorama of a system that encompasses those incarcerated, their loved ones and those affected by the crimes. All six were convicted of serious offenses. All underwent long-term incarceration, and many were under 18 when convicted. They are men and women of various ages and racial identities, powerfully sharing their experiences in prison, and--if and when released--their experiences beginning reentry.

Among those whose stories Kessler covers are Arnoldo, Sterling, Travis, Catherine, Dave and Vicki. Several were convicted of murder; there's struggles with addiction; histories of abuse are rampant. But in Kessler's telling, neither crimes nor circumstances make up the full picture. They are kind, complicated, flawed, generous, nervous, repentant and sincere. Above all, they're people.

Kessler acknowledges an inevitable question: Why care? Shouldn't those who do wrong be punished? Of course, it's not so simple. But in addition to the myriad ways people are not treated equally in the U.S. legal system, Kessler suggests an alternative motivation for caring: selfishness. After all, she points out, 95% of those incarcerated get out at some point, rejoining society: "Their kids sit in classrooms next to our kids. They are our neighbors. Living inside cages behind walls can have profound effects on personality and behavior, on health and attitude, on what kind of person rejoins our community." There are obvious needs for the system to "work." Yet, reentry itself is complicated, full of barriers and challenges. Kessler relays a memorable anecdote about attending a simulation exercise designed to help volunteers interested in learning more about the penal system better understand its difficulties. Even the simulation exercise requires counselors to be on-hand to comfort the participants--who are willing and motivated to be there and learn. But the hourlong exercise that has them practice navigating services and requirements can be crushing. And people recently released from prison to find their paths are rarely so well supported in the extraordinarily complicated steps reentry demands.

This is the crux of Free. Through stories, Kessler asks us to reckon with fundamental questions--what is justice? what is rehabilitation?--alongside the fundamental facts of the barriers facing those who go through a system that doesn't often seem to deliver either. Nor does it seem to prepare its occupants for "successful" reentry. Still, as Kessler makes poignantly, painstakingly clear throughout, much of the data is far more complicated than the numbers suggest. While 68% of those released are rearrested within three years, situations differ. People differ. What "successful" looks like differs.

Kessler spotlights the movement for Restorative Justice while still making room to share the difficulties for victims' families in considering this approach. In yet another unforgettable chapter, Kessler recalls a parole hearing for Sterling, in which she is among the speakers advocating for his release. But his victims' parents speak, too, and their words likewise reverberate on the page. It's riveting in Kessler's retelling, painful from every angle. The situation, like so many others, asks additional hard questions. Kessler wonders: "Short of 'an eye for an eye,' what is a life 'worth'? How much punishment is enough? Is any punishment enough?"

Kessler braids in hope and celebrates resilience; Free might otherwise be an impossible read. She also builds in critical space to remind readers of just how many stories remain untold or unheard. Again, the stakes are high: "We want those who have done harm to us to suffer, to pay for what they did," Kessler writes, "But in making them suffer, we create the kind of human beings we do not want back in our communities."

Change in our prison system has long been needed, and the chaos and cruelties wrought by Covid-19 on people in prison, both those serving time and those staffing the facilities they all share, highlight the grave stakes. For readers in the U.S., Free is a sobering, necessary mirror. What does this system say about us? Where will we go from here, and how--and most urgently, when? --Katie Weed

Lauren Kessler is an award-winning author, immersion reporter and speaker. She has written 10 books of narrative nonfiction, including A Grip of Time and Dancing with Rose: Finding Life in the Land of Alzheimer's. Her book Free: Two Years, Six Lives, and the Long Journey Home, coming from Sourcebooks in April, creates nuanced portraits of six incarcerated individuals. Kessler lives in the Pacific Northwest.

The emotional heft of Free comes from your movingly rendered stories of the people therein. You say, "Information does not equal understanding.... You understand the world you live in by learning stories from the world you live in." How might we learn to consider more of the stories around us to better understand the systems in which we coexist?

We humans are storytelling animals. Stories are how we make sense (or don't) of the world, how we learn about others, how we come to understand ourselves. We have evolved to be this way. Our brains are wired this way. Stories are, literally, how we survive. So, I don't think we need to foster a sense of the importance of story or persuade folks about the power of story. That is inborn. I think we need to fire up or reignite--or at least not extinguish--curiosity. We seem to have gotten less and less curious. Or our curiosity is too easily satisfied. A Wikipedia entry, a podcast, a quickie TED Talk--sure, okay. But we should be seeking a much deeper level of understanding--especially of those whose lives and paths are very different from our own.

And we should not be frightened by stories that make us uncomfortable, by lives that are difficult to understand. We should seek them out and learn from them. This has been my personal intention with Free and with my previous book that focuses on the incarcerated, Grip of Time. I hope that readers come to this work curious and openhearted.

How do you see the relationship between attitudes of white supremacy and mass incarceration? How might we work toward restorative justice with people in BIPOC communities in the U.S. as the current system continues to harm and disenfranchise them so disproportionately?

This is such a complex--and existentially important--question. The staggering racial inequities we see in our U.S. prison population are the result of a fatally broken system of criminal justice which too often has nothing to do with justice, and a deeply divided, deeply inequitable culture in which true equality is seen as a zero-sum game. How do we begin to work together to create, from the ground up, a truly equitable culture? How do we even frame the conversation? Could reparations be part of a response? I want to listen to the voices of those harmed for guidance on this matter.

Details of the experiences of those who have been incarcerated long-term speak volumes: the excitement over trying a caramel Frappuccino, or savoring a yogurt parfait with actual fresh fruit. How do you decide what your process looks like, or which details to include?

Spending so much time with the six people in Free, not peppering them with questions like an interviewer would, but rather sitting with them, listening to them, observing them living their lives--that's where these details come from. My focus is their focus. I started out my writing life as a traditional journalist, essentially controlling the narrative by controlling the conversation. That is: I ask questions that are important to ME, and I wait for the response. That's not how I work anymore. Now I spend most of my time listening and watching. I have learned far more from the work of cultural anthropologists than I have from the work of journalists--the exception being Joan Didion, whose powers of observation, whose ability to remain still and silent, were/are astonishing.

To what extent does our prison system contribute to the need to "humanize" the people incarcerated within it?

Our system of incarceration is designed specifically to de-humanize people, to rob them not just of their freedom (yes, that is the punishment) but to also rob them of their identity--they are a number--their self-worth, their opportunity to make any meaningful decisions, their ability to control any aspect of their environment. Is this "justice served"? Are these the "lessons" we want the incarcerated to learn during their imprisonment? They are released to our world, where they are faced with decision after decision, big and small, where a sense of self is foundational to making your way. This internal readjustment, this relearning what it means to be human... it's the hardest part of the journey from caged to free.

How might readers of your book thoughtfully bring these conversations to those who've not yet read it?

Let's say you did something wrong. You get punished. That's the way our justice system works: the goal is to stop wrongdoing, and punishment is the response. Restorative justice defines wrongdoing as causing harm. It defines justice as attempting to understand and repair that harm. If you want to talk to friends and family about this, the questions to prompt discussions, I think, are: What is justice? What does it mean to "pay" for a crime? What is our justice system supposed to accomplish? Does it do that? What if we focused on taking responsibility and making amends and not purely on retribution?

Early on, you quote criminologist Howard Zehr: "Trauma untransformed is trauma transferred." As Free comes out amid the continuing pandemic, are there lessons we can learn about how to transform trauma experienced during these years of isolation?

This is such an important discussion to have now that millions of us have experienced in some very "lite" and minor way what it means to be isolated, to be deprived of meaningful contact with others, to have severely limited choices, to feel confined. How have these past two-plus years affected our physical health? Our emotional and psychological well-being? Now imagine living an astronomically intensified version of such a life--for 25 or 30 years. I am hoping these pandemic experiences can fuel meaningful dialog leading to prison reform.

"[Sterling] thinks I have taught him a lot," you write. "It is nothing compared to what he has taught me." What are some of the most meaningful or surprising things he has taught you?

I feel like any answer here will be incomplete because the relationship Sterling and I have is forever deepening. But, for starters: celebrate that which does not crush you. Speak truth to power, even when your voice is a whisper and theirs is a shout. Know the odds are against you--and do it anyway. Persevere beyond any previous conception you had of what perseverance entailed. When all else fails: Bob Marley and M&Ms. --Katie Weed