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reporters had to cut short their questions about charges still pending.
    The crowd waiting for me is smaller. Mostly reporters—about fifteen—plus a TV crew and a few people from Jeremy’s office. I recognize only a few faces personally, which isn’t a surprise. I don’t have the extended family Bruce had. The weeping aunts, the cousins, the army of relatives who never gave up hope. The only person I have is Marianne, in her arms, standing alone, a bouquet of flowers.
    “How does it feel to be out?” one reporter calls as flashes go off.
    I smile for the cameras. Great, I mouth.
    “What’s the first thing you want to do when you get home?”
    They don’t realize that no one who’s been in prison for twelve years still has a home. “Sleep late and drink some good coffee in the morning.” I’ve prepared this line and practiced it with Jeremy, who smiles beside me.
    “Do you think you’ll get your old job back?”
    It’s been more than ten years since I’ve heard from anyone I worked with at the library. “I don’t have any firm plans yet. I’ll need a job, of course.” Jeremy has urged me to say this in the hope that it might produce an offer.
    Though I wrote my statement, Jeremy has revised it a little. Last night, he explained: “The main point here is that you’re grateful to be given your life back. That you’re looking forward to simple pleasures—pizza, movies, watching the sunset. Yes, you’ll be suing the state if they don’t come up with a reasonable offer soon, but that’s not the most important thing on your mind right now. Much better if you don’t seem too angry at this point.”
    I deliver my words with Jeremy’s instructions in my mind: Be aware of the TV camera but don’t look into it. “Twelve years ago, I left behind family and friends to enter this prison on what we now understand was a false conviction for a crime I had no part in. I am neither bitter nor broken by this experience. I have learned much about the fortitude of the human spirit and I believe I have survived with my own intact. I also understand the hard work has just begun. Reclaiming my old life won’t be easy. Part of my new job will be fighting for justice in our system. I am one of countless men and women still sit behind bars, innocent of the crimes they are serving time for.”
    Cameras flash as my halting voice limps to the end of this statement that I deliver without any of the emotion it needs to pack a punch.
    The crowd has grown slightly. For a second I look up and think I see Paul standing in the back, looking up at me hopefully. It’s hard to be sure because the flashes leave spots dancing in front of me. When my eyes clear, the shadow no longer looks like Paul but like Leo, which I know is impossible. And then whoever it is disappears again. My brain is playing tricks on me, imagining that I’m not standing here alone, facing my future with no one beside me.

CHAPTER 5
    G etting into Marianne’s car, I feel a little like a refugee from some natural disaster. I have one battered cardboard box containing the handmade presents I’ve received over the years: a paper towel roll kaleidoscope, a collage of shirtless men that Wanda made to cheer us up when we hadn’t seen a real one in a while. I have these things but no purse, no wallet, no money, no ID except the inmate tag I’ve worn around my neck for a decade.
    “One thing at a time,” Jeremy told me when I pointed out that my driver’s license expired ten years ago. “You don’t need a license until you’ve got a car.” It’s overwhelming to contemplate. If I ever land a job interview how will I get to it? “First things first,” he said. “You know what you need to do.”
    I do. In the car I ask Marianne if she remembers Linda Sue having a cat. She startles for a moment. “A cat, ” she says. “Why do you ask that?”
    “I thought I saw one that day when I was in her house, looking around.” I don’t need to clarify this—