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building on the west side of the north quadrant of
Quail Creek Apartment Homes.
    His
parole agent had already parked in the driveway, so Colesceau pulled his truck
into a guest space. Now he would have to walk to his front door in broad
daylight. In Colesceau's opinion Parole Agent Al Holtz was an inconsiderate
pig, but he was generally amiable and unthreatening. He didn't carry a gun,
although Colesceau knew he kept one in the glove compartment of his car.
    He sat for a moment with
the engine running. His truck was old and small, but the air conditioner worked
well. He knew that what was about to happen was important to him and it made
him sweat. He wanted to do well for himself. He closed his eyes and aimed the
vent straight into his face.
    Without any real choice in
the matter, Colesceau had assented to meeting his PA, his psychologist, and
maybe even a cop in his own home during his lunch hour from work. This was
unnerving. But as a convicted felon and parolee he had no right to privacy, and
the bureaucrats in charge of his life wanted to see him in what the
psychologist called his "domestic environment" and the PA called his
"pad." The ostensible reason for this meeting was his completion—in
exactly eight days—of his parole. Two years at Pelican Bay State Prison, two in
the Atascadero State Hospital, and then three on parole, ending at noon next
Wednesday. But there was more to this meeting than just that.
    He cut the engine, pulled
hard on the parking brake and got out. The early August sun was bright and
Colesceau shaded his eyes and leaned forward as he trotted toward the front
door of 12 Meadowlark. He could feel the duct tape around his body, but he
didn't think anyone else could see it through his Pratt Automotive shirt that
said "Moros" over the pocket. The terms of his parole said nothing
about duct tape.
    He read the newspapers,
however, and with the new applications of Megan's Law, cops were now telling
people when "high risk" offenders were living in their neighborhoods.
Here in Orange County they called it the SONAR program, for Sexual Offenders
Notification and Registration. What it did was get you run out of your home if
you had a history of sexual offenses and were considered "high risk"
as opposed to "serious." He understood that this interview would help
determine whether his neighbors were informed about his past.
    Colesceau could think of
no fate more humiliating than to be driven out of his apartment by squeaky
clean blond people who did nothing more daring in life than cheat on their
taxes.
    Holtz was standing in his
kitchen, drinking one of Colesceau's root beers. Holtz was fat with quick eyes
and the habit of smiling when he gave you bad news. Colesceau had never once
seen the lenses of his glasses clean. Holtz acted like a friend at times, but
he wasn't.
    "Moras! How are
you?"
    "Fine, Al"
    "Hot one
today."
    "It is
drastic."
    "Carla should be
here any minute."
    Colesceau always saw himself from the outside when he
was with other people. He always had, even as a boy. It was like watching a
play he was in. The characters spoke, and he was one of them. He was a
spectator and a participant. He had always assumed it had something to do with
not being comfortable with the people around him. But you don't really choose
your own company, he knew: especially in a family, a prison or a hospital.
    So for
a brief moment Colesceau saw himself standing there, talking to the fat man in
his kitchen. Yes, that's me, he thought—short and pudgy, wearing a blue
short-sleeve shirt with a patch and his name over the pocket. Mid-twenties.
Hair medium length, black and wavy, complexion pale, lips pink and thick.
Colesceau noted his own slightly enlarged breasts, courtesy of the hormone-altering
drug Depo-Provera, which was part of his punishment. Treatment, he corrected
himself: chemical castration is part of my treatment. And I'll be done with that treatment in eight days.
    "Al, I have a
new egg."
    "Lay it