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away.
    Most rural residents, including my parents, let their farm dogs run loose. It really isn’t practical to chain them up, because part of their job is to keep wild creatures away from the buildings and bark an alert if strangers drive in the yard. To do that, they need freedom to roam.
    Next, my hometown was far outside of Channel 3’s broadcast area, which made it difficult to get stories approved because rural viewers watching the news on satellite television are less desirable to Twin Cities advertisers.
    “Seems like a better fit for your paper,” I said.
    “We listed for readers to be on the watch for the pets, but we can’t do much more. We cover school, sports, and community events. We don’t have much of a staff. Mostly just me. We count on readers to send us news.”
    “The town’s lucky to still have a local newspaper.”
    “Thanks. I’m sorry for how I sounded earlier.”
    “Don’t worry about it, Maureen. I hear worse from viewers all day long.”
    “I have the same problem with constituents.” A thin man in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans was holding a beer and listening to us talk.
    Phillip McCarthy had also graduated in my class. He flashed me a smile, which was more attention than he had paid me all through high school. His claim to fame then was bringing home a state trophy for running the hundred-yard dash. A few years ago, Phil had been elected to serve as a state legislator when the current lawmaker from that district resigned midterm after a sex scandal.
    “How are things going up at the Capitol?” I asked.
    I seldom covered state government unless some kind of corruption was afoot, and only asked to be polite so he could sound important in front of our classmates. He went on and on about how the other political party wouldn’t compromise. It was becoming tedious, and just when I was about to use that old ploy again about having to look for a restroom, he asked me out on what sounded like a date.
    “How about you and I get together for dinner sometime, Riley?”
    Just then the band started playing our prom song—“Everything I Do, I Do for You”—so I pretended I couldn’t hear him. He pulled me out on the dance floor anyway, and during an instrumental part of the ballad, suggested again that we get together socially. “We could talk about old times.”
    By then I mustered a suitable answer that would save face for both of us. “Sorry, Phil, it could pose a conflict of interest, especially during the legislative session.”
    Other than sharing our single status and hometown, I doubted we had much in common and had no interest in getting in bed with a politician.

CHAPTER 12
    I nmate 16780-59 hit the floor after being sucker-punched by a swaggering thug with a long braid of hair hanging down his back.
    “If anyone asks,” the brute whispered, “tell them you tripped.”
    “Tripped,” a fellow ruffian echoed. “That’s a good name for a clumsy punk like you. Trip. From now on, that’s your handle. Understand?”
    The first hood hauled him to his feet and pushed him against a wall. “So what’s your name, punk?”
    He wanted them to just leave so he could puke. “Trip. My name is Trip.”
    “Prove it.”
    He was confused and tried again to comply. “Call me Trip.” He even smiled at them, hoping to pass their test.
    “ Not until you prove it,” the man insisted.
    “Fall on your face, idiot,” the other man ordered. “ Trip .”
    So the inmate dropped to the floor and curled his arms over his head, trying to make himself invisible as he waited to be kicked.
    The larger man leaned over him. “That’s what I want to see happen anytime we meet. You hitting the ground.”
    The goons snickered as he limped back toward his cell to barf in the sink, and curl up with a thin prison pillow on a narrowvinyl mattress. His bunk mate was about half his age and called Kilo because he had landed in the slammer for dealing coke. Kilo had played nice by letting the old guy