from the money he’d paroled with. When it ran out, he didn’t know what he’d do, but he’d be damned if he would spend his first night of freedom huddled against a building in a dark alley.
He’d gotten fast food and spent thirty bucks on this sorry excuse for a rented room. He lay on top of a worn bedspread, not wanting to think about what crap was crusted into the thin fabric. No matter, he’d had worse before, both inside and outside of prison or jail.
As long as he was free, he could survive anything.
Staying alive, avoiding blowback from prison debriefing, was the important goal.
He had expected to serve out the last six months of his original sentence in special needs, but admin had fast-tracked him through the system, gotten him out of harm’s. He figured that move had saved his life.
The Professor was too smart not to figure out what Cole had done. Anson Stark would be wanting major retaliation and had plenty of contacts on the outside to carry out his orders.
Now he just had to stay alive long enough to finish parole or disappear.
People thought Cole was dumb, and he admitted he wasn’t very smart. He had trouble in school all his life and dropped out at the age of fifteen. He didn’t read well – the letters and figures on the page looked all twisted around and backwards, but teachers, and even his own parents, seemed to think he was just lazy, not trying hard enough.
He knew there was something wrong with him, in his head, but he wasn’t as stupid as people thought. If he was, he’d be dead already. Right now he knew enough to realize he was in deep shit with little chance of getting out of it no matter who reached out to him.
There were precious few giving a hand to a no-good ex-con like him.
No one around here, not even his parole officer, could help him. Some things just didn’t get fixed, no matter how good peoples’ intentions were.
He thought of Doc Jones and her pretty, but sad face. She’d tried to help him. She was one smart cookie, the way she’d scooped up that note he’d dropped in her hand during his medical exam. She’d be a helluva card player, he figured, smiling at the image.
He sighed deeply and then shivered as if someone had walked over his grave. He sure hoped he hadn’t put the doc in harm’s way. He didn’t want that on his conscience, along with all his other mistakes.
Opening the packet of materials he’d been given on release, he started reading. It was a laborious task, his reading skills being only slightly better than his writing. However, using the map provided, he realized he was right around the corner from a homeless shelter. Jesus Saves. Sounded hinky to him. He didn’t trust much in Jesus freaks. They were always wanting to convert you to something in exchange for a bite of food or a place to bunk for the night.
Still, maybe he’d give it a once-over in the morning after he reported to his parole officer.
He dosed a bit, wakening up around midnight. Taking his backpack with him, he walked down the stairs and next door to a twenty-four-hour, old-fashioned drive-in where he got a black coffee and sat quietly in the corner, planning and thinking.
At last the manager, a pimply-faced teenager who’d been eyeing him for some time, walked over to his booth. “Uh, sorry, sir, but you can’t stay here, uh, any longer. That is, uh, unless you order something.”
Cole was pretty sure the kid was scared to death, but he didn’t want to start off his release with some kind of unnecessary altercation, so he simply nodded and rose, taking his coffee with him. He wandered around the area, silent and mostly empty except for the occasional street person settling down for the night in an alley or behind a secluded dumpster.
Even though it violated his parole, Cole knew he had to have something to defend himself with. You couldn’t live on the street without protection. A gun was out – too hard to get, too easy to get caught with, and too
He’d gotten fast food and spent thirty bucks on this sorry excuse for a rented room. He lay on top of a worn bedspread, not wanting to think about what crap was crusted into the thin fabric. No matter, he’d had worse before, both inside and outside of prison or jail.
As long as he was free, he could survive anything.
Staying alive, avoiding blowback from prison debriefing, was the important goal.
He had expected to serve out the last six months of his original sentence in special needs, but admin had fast-tracked him through the system, gotten him out of harm’s. He figured that move had saved his life.
The Professor was too smart not to figure out what Cole had done. Anson Stark would be wanting major retaliation and had plenty of contacts on the outside to carry out his orders.
Now he just had to stay alive long enough to finish parole or disappear.
People thought Cole was dumb, and he admitted he wasn’t very smart. He had trouble in school all his life and dropped out at the age of fifteen. He didn’t read well – the letters and figures on the page looked all twisted around and backwards, but teachers, and even his own parents, seemed to think he was just lazy, not trying hard enough.
He knew there was something wrong with him, in his head, but he wasn’t as stupid as people thought. If he was, he’d be dead already. Right now he knew enough to realize he was in deep shit with little chance of getting out of it no matter who reached out to him.
There were precious few giving a hand to a no-good ex-con like him.
No one around here, not even his parole officer, could help him. Some things just didn’t get fixed, no matter how good peoples’ intentions were.
He thought of Doc Jones and her pretty, but sad face. She’d tried to help him. She was one smart cookie, the way she’d scooped up that note he’d dropped in her hand during his medical exam. She’d be a helluva card player, he figured, smiling at the image.
He sighed deeply and then shivered as if someone had walked over his grave. He sure hoped he hadn’t put the doc in harm’s way. He didn’t want that on his conscience, along with all his other mistakes.
Opening the packet of materials he’d been given on release, he started reading. It was a laborious task, his reading skills being only slightly better than his writing. However, using the map provided, he realized he was right around the corner from a homeless shelter. Jesus Saves. Sounded hinky to him. He didn’t trust much in Jesus freaks. They were always wanting to convert you to something in exchange for a bite of food or a place to bunk for the night.
Still, maybe he’d give it a once-over in the morning after he reported to his parole officer.
He dosed a bit, wakening up around midnight. Taking his backpack with him, he walked down the stairs and next door to a twenty-four-hour, old-fashioned drive-in where he got a black coffee and sat quietly in the corner, planning and thinking.
At last the manager, a pimply-faced teenager who’d been eyeing him for some time, walked over to his booth. “Uh, sorry, sir, but you can’t stay here, uh, any longer. That is, uh, unless you order something.”
Cole was pretty sure the kid was scared to death, but he didn’t want to start off his release with some kind of unnecessary altercation, so he simply nodded and rose, taking his coffee with him. He wandered around the area, silent and mostly empty except for the occasional street person settling down for the night in an alley or behind a secluded dumpster.
Even though it violated his parole, Cole knew he had to have something to defend himself with. You couldn’t live on the street without protection. A gun was out – too hard to get, too easy to get caught with, and too
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