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how.”
    Logan snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.” It bothered him more than it should. He knew there were professionals who checked on housebound people. Maybe they’re more expensive and Klass’s a cheap bastard. Except Caleb ran his own business and, by the look of his apartment, was doing good. Whatever the reason, Caleb needed to know who his uncle was bringing in to help him. Logan wouldn’t do anything to hurt Caleb, but Klass didn’t know that.
    “Caleb’s a nice young man and would have a lot to offer someone.” She paused, giving Logan a pointed look that made his ears burn. “I imagine it won’t be long before he’s snatched up.” The unspoken challenge was clear in her voice. He stifled the urge to tell her to mind her own damn business. The idea of her working her matchmaking skills on Caleb irked him irrationally. He’d give her credit; she was a perceptive old lady. Most people were too busy gawking at his height to wonder about his orientation. She’d figured it out in a matter of seconds. That she thought he might be a potential match for Caleb surprised him, but it wasn’t like he wore a name tag reading “alcoholic ex-con.” If she knew his background, she’d likely never consider him as boyfriend material. Shaking off the thought, he offered his hand and said good-bye before heading out.
     
     
    O N T HURSDAY , about a dozen people waited on the platform for the Red Line L train as Logan climbed the stairs. A double shift at the warehouse and then an hour-long anger management class had left him with a less than cheery disposition. The potent smell of piss and coffee wasn’t helping his mood. Today, the speaker had lectured them in her condescending baby voice about the body’s biochemical response to anger. It was pretty clear her idea of anger management was not yelling at the Starbucks server who’d screwed up her soy mocha latte. It was hard to worry about the threat of heart attack or stroke from chronic anger when there were more immediate dangers. Like three to five years for an assault conviction.
    Logan made his way under the wooden canopy and leaned against a metal pillar. The AA meeting he was headed for now was also court ordered like the class, but he knew he needed to go to it. That hadn’t been the case when he’d started the program in prison. He’d been thinking about making himself a better parole candidate, not about recovery. It wasn’t until he’d listened to the other cons tell their stories that he realized how close he’d come to making the pen his permanent address.
    A rumbling vibration that shook the whole platform signaled the arrival of the train. After the train ground to a halt and the doors slid open, Logan ducked his head and made his way inside. The train wasn’t packed, but there weren’t any open seats. Moving away from the doors, he latched on to a metal rail. An old man in tattered clothes grumbling in the back corner made Logan think about the cantankerous priest who had run the AA meetings in prison. Father Murphy had been in AA for more years than Logan had been alive. His direct, honest approach could slice a man to pieces, but he’d be there to help put him back together.
    The train screeched and rattled like an old-time wooden roller coaster as it pulled away from the station. Father Murphy had been the first to introduce Logan to the idea of a “higher power.” Logan hadn’t been religious growing up. He could remember his mom going to church alone, because his old man said he wouldn’t let the pompous hypocrites infect his son. Logan had supported any belief that had him eating cereal and watching cartoons on Sunday mornings instead of spending two hours in a stuffy church. A hazy blur clouded his memories of the night he was arrested. He couldn’t say he believed in God any more now than as a kid, but he liked to think that some intangible thing had stepped in and stopped him from killing that night. The train lurched to a