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But when he didn’t eat he got hungry, and the hunger hurt, and that’s why he ate. It’s why he shopped. Warren would agree. Warren knew about hunger—sure he did.
    Then came the conversation.
    But a week before the conversation there was the referendum—or, more accurately, the result of such a referendum. The citizens of New Zealand were asked a month ago whether to keep the primeminister they had, or vote on a new one. They were given that opportunity every three years. Personally, he never thought there was much difference between politicians. Could they be trusted? No. Did people know that? Yes. So who was the fool when a politician let you down? He would vote Labour, he would vote National, he would choose on the day. Who was the better of two evils? That was the box he would tick. This time there was a second question being asked, a question many were demanding to be asked. Should the death penalty be brought back? The current prime minister won by a landslide. But the death penalty was closer. Half of the country voted yes. Half voted no. It was split down the middle. A dead heat. So the votes needed to be counted. And recounted. And recounted again. Which took two weeks. The votes weren’t split down the middle at all. They were separated by one hundred and seventy-seven votes. They say every single vote counts. In this case it was one hundred and seventy-six votes away from being true.
    The death penalty was coming back.
    He didn’t care.
    It was what it was. It didn’t affect him. It wasn’t a big deal.
    It was. Just. Life.
    Then the conversation. It was three days ago. It wasn’t just his wife that came by. There were others. People he’d worked with. People he knew. They felt bad about what had happened to him. Of course they did. He didn’t. It was. Just. Life. He was okay with it. Didn’t like it. Didn’t hate it. He’d accepted it. People from his past were showing up. They showed up without being invited. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with beer. He just sat and listened and didn’t much feel like contributing to the conversation—which, in hindsight, meant he felt something, didn’t it?
    The conversation that changed everything was seemingly inconsequential. There was the weather. It could rain or snow or the sun could scorch the earth, and what would change? He’d sit in his room and okay, maybe he’d put on a heater or open a window, but life would go on. Other people. Names from his past were thrownat him, this guy was doing that, that guy was doing this. World events. Oil was going up in price, somewhere was getting invaded, human rights were in jeopardy as they always were in some far corner, people being hacked to pieces a way of life the way ice creams on beaches in summer was a way of life in New Zealand. The referendum. The death penalty was on its way back and did he think it would change the level of violence in the country?
    The Christchurch Carver—given name Joe Middleton—was a sick, twisted son of a bitch who for years had worked as a janitor at the police department during the day, but during the night was out there breaking into the houses of women who were alone, tying them up, and turning them into homicide statistics. The police arrested him late in the game, and a year later, on the day his trial was set to begin—the trial that would possibly send him to death row—Joe escaped. Even now he’s roaming about freely, but nobody knows where.
    And that did it. At the mention of the Carver he felt something stir inside him. It was like an old car that hadn’t run in years was being started. Only the fuel was bad, the engine was half-seized, there was enough juice for the engine to try and turn over, but that was all, a hint of life and then nothing. So the New Him did care about something. It cared about the Carver, because back in the old life he had been on the task force that had failed for so long to catch him. He still felt the anger of the man’s escape, but