It all came in snapshots or sound bites. Al slammed against the hood. Cuffs clicking around Henry’s wrists. The squad car trunk against his cheek. The right to remain silent. Smacks up his ankles, his thighs. And will be used. Smacks at his hips. Against you. The single coin went undetected. The cops’ asses in the air while their top halves rummaged inside the Bonneville. Gathering on its roof, one by one, discoveries. Evidence. First a half-drunk bottle. The pip and crumpled baggies. A yellow catalog envelope. The trunk popped open. Spare tire lifted. A gallon ziplock of pale green. In the backseat of the squad car, Henry blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the crimson light now shrieked white—a camera flash. Mug shot. Turn left. He turned left. A second flash, then he was shoved into a plain square room lined with plain steel doors. The space was fully lit despite the hour, freezing despite the season. Walls layered clumpy with paint like cinnamon icing, while recent carvings and graffiti awaited a fresh coat. Mold and turpentine and tequila breath. In each corner of the ceiling was a round fish-eye mirror and a security camera monitoring a dozen metal chairs facing the same direction, like a classroom or DMV waiting room. Al’s roast-beef musk. He leaned into Henry, telling him these fuckers ain’t got shit. Whatever they asked, just say he didn’t know nothing, and they’d be out in no time flat, back home for breakfast, it was all good and gravy, and then a guard grabbed Al and began dragging him toward one of the steel doors. Over his shoulder, Al shouted the Fifth, the Fifth, the Fifth, and then steel clanked shut. Henry waited. Nothing to do with his hands shackled to the floor. Nothing to see in this beige cube. No clock or calendar. No windows or screens. Not even a no-smoking plaque or digits marking the doors, but from behind them came the occasional muffled sob, shout, or cackle. Henry couldn’t sleep, not after the meth and dread, but he could blink for as long as he pleased, or bear. Most times, when his eyes reopened, the room was just as he’d left it. Other times, he’d find a new guest. First a vagrant who smelled exactly how he looked, sprawled across three chair seats, snoring. A guard made a lap around them, nodding into the camera lenses above. Later, a scraggly white kid, cussing and spitting, acting hard and looking mortified. In the movies people always got a phone call, and so when the guard reappeared, Henry asked for his but just got a snicker. He blinked for seconds or hours or days, and then a man with a flattop and an accordion folder strode through the room and into the same door Al had disappeared behind—or was it? All the doors were the same. They seemed reserved for the drunk and threatening, or else the strung-out and foaming. An Asian woman floated among the chairs, her makeup a fiasco and coral-tough fingers interlocked over the small of her back. While the others sat slumped, she took her seat with poise, her spine rigid and thighs crossed. He thought of Michelle’s thighs. Of what the nurse had done between them. He heard her screaming. Saw her laughing. Saw her rocking, nuzzling, cuddling Junior. It was his turn. His turn to hold their baby, but he couldn’t—the cuffs. When he jerked his wrists, a fist gripped the chain, yanked him to his feet, and tugged the chain even higher to fold him into a penitent pose as he was steered toward one of the steel doors himself. The next room was smaller, colder, darker, one wall half-covered by a mirror. A metal table with a steel ring for the cuffs. The man with the flattop was reviewing the contents of a manila folder, too focused to acknowledge Henry’s arrival. The man looked from the file to the mirror and delivered an expression so lax and self-assured that he seemed bored. Sounded bored, too, entirely unfazed when each of his questions was met with the same response. How long had Henry known Allen? Lawyer. What had he known about the contents of the trunk? Lawyer. And how they’d been manufactured? Lawyer. Was he aware of the overdoses linked to this particular batch? Lawyer. Or that two had resulted in death? Lawyer. Which meant a manslaughter if not second-degree murder charge, and did he have any idea how much time that carried? Lawy—Thirty minimum, and exactly how old was he again? The man checked the file. Right. A sentence potentially longer than all the years Henry’d spent dicking around before landing his punk ass right here. Thirty years was a long time, but didn’t have to be. Things could be worked out, negotiated, and the man yawned. Now, look. His buddy in the next room had a rap sheet longer than a donkey’s cock, whereas he, Mr. Henry, on the other hand, was somehow squeaky clean, which could go a long way in a pickle like theirs. A lot of time could be saved and tears spared, especially Henry’s. His family’s. Already plenty enough evidence collected suggesting Allen had been the brains of the operation. Black-market pill press and an ounce of pure fentanyl had been recovered from his home earlier this morning, and he meant, c’mon, kid. With all things pointing to Al, Henry shouldn’t have to take the same fall. Didn’t he agree? Three decades, possibly more, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? The man didn’t know about Henry, but that sure seemed steep to him. However, if Henry played ball, cooperated, signed a plea bargain, and testified in court, they could bring a lifetime down to ten—maybe just five, with good behavior—for possession of a controlled, Schedule II substance. This was the best deal he was gonna get, and a one-time offer. A lot on the line. Too much, what with that Chatty-Cathy next door. Sure liked talking, didn’t he? Lots of good times together, between them two, huh? Even mentioned Henry’d recently had himself a kid. A boy. Little Henry Junior, wasn’t that right?