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Until his mother showed up, Benji would be physically well cared for. But there wasn’t much anyone could do for the hollow ache I was sure was growing in his gut.
    Sloshing back to my place, I realized I wouldn’t have time for a nap after all. I could fit in the shave and shower, though. Just as well. I could feel my muscles stiffening up, and a couple hours sleep might make it worse. I did need to wash the blood off my face and out of my hair, though, before I met with Mr. Ramirez. Even if I stuck pretty much to the truth, the story I was going to tell him would be pretty hard to swallow. POs are suspicious by nature. With my face bruised up, I must look like I’d been in a fight. No need to look and smell like I hadn’t bothered to clean myself up in recent memory.

Chapter 3
    T he waiting room to the parole office was in the basement of a building in the county complex, with the main police station and the county lockup upstairs. The courthouse was right next door. Made it convenient if they decided to lock one of us criminals up for a parole violation.
    The room was crowded. I preferred morning appointments, when not so many people would be ahead of me, but then, nobody ever asked what I preferred. The radiators on the walls hissed and steamed, throwing off excessive heat, and condensation dripped down the grimy glass of the windows set high in the walls. An overwhelming odor of unwashed bodies and urine filled the air. A woman in a ragged overcoat held a dirty rag to her mouth and coughed unceasingly.
    I signed in on the clipboard left on a ledge by the window to the receptionist’s desk, which was unoccupied. Then I looked over the uneasy crowd. The only empty seats were in the middle of the room. After all the years in prison, I would feel too exposed and vulnerable in them, so I took a place standing against a wall, keeping as far away from the radiators as I could. Stripping off my jacket and folding it over my arm, I settled in to wait.
    Every once in a while, a stocky woman with big red fingernails and bigger, redder hair appeared from within the depths of the inner offices, checked the clipboard, snapped her gum, and then called out a name. She would then open the door and let the person she’d called precede her down the hallway.
    More people entered the waiting room, signed in, sized up the seating, and either chose a seat or leaned against the wall. No one spoke.
    Anyone done with their appointment left the back offices, fled through the cramped waiting room, and dashed out the door, avoiding all eye contact. Their faces showed their relief. Without counting or paying really close attention, there was no way to tell if anyone had been whisked away up the interior stairs to a holding cell in the police station above.
    Eventually, the woman picked up the clipboard, ran her sharp red nail down the list, and looked up. “Jesse Damon?” she called.
    I stepped up to the window. “Yes, ma’am.”
    She ran her gaze over me disdainfully, as if wondering if another, more suitable Jesse Damon could be found if only she looked further. Finally, she opened the door and stood back, her gum cracking. “You know where you’re going?”
    “I know where Mr. Ramirez’s office is, if that’s where I’m supposed to be going.”
    “Where else do you think you’d be going?”
    No point answering that. I stepped up to his open office door.
    Mr. Ramirez’s head, topped with a dark thatch of curly hair, was bent over the paperwork on his desk. His beefy forearm moved as he made notes on a form. I stood, waiting for him to invite me in. From her post by the door, the lady glared at me like it was my fault I was still in the hallway.
    He looked up and frowned. “Come in and sit down.”
    I eased into the office and lowered myself into the worn wooden chair in front of his desk.
    He leaned back in his desk chair and eyed me. “You been fighting again?”
    Not a good start. “No, sir.”
    “How come every time you