Alan looked at his lap. He wanted to puke.

Him find God? Now that embarrassed the heck out of him. What a crock of shit!

Weasel Face's earlier words repeated in his head.

"You've got to make her trust that you're truly sorry. We need her on our side. You hear me?"

Alan forced himself to glance over and see if she was buying this little play of theirs. He kept his head down so she wouldn't know.

He began to say, "Nem, honey, if I could trade places with your, with your...”

He stopped.

Because … What the fuck?

He was baring his heart and she'd begun to read and write in a book, as though taking notes in class. Weird. He wanted to ask her what she was writing. Why she was writing?

But when she looked up to lock her gaze on him, the pen poised in her hand, she wasn't a child anymore. He was prey sized up by a predator. Her eyes held the faintest of glimmers; a flickering lamp in a window. The glow grew, and in unison heat rose in him, real heat on his face and inside his skin.

With every fiber of his willpower he tried to avert his eyes. But as though she possessed a magnetic power, he couldn't look away. The words he'd only just uttered coiled in his head like smoke.

If I could trade places with your, with your¬-

He couldn't focus; his brain afire, and he needed to get away, return to his cell, close his eyes and not see her anymore.

Suddenly she reached out to grasp his hand, still with that weird I'm-gonna-eat-you smile on her face. His stomach curdled at her touch. He expected her skin to feel hot or freezing, or like a static electric shock. He expected pain.

Nothing.

Just her hand touching his.

Something though, something he didn't understand happened.

He snatched his hand back, whipped it away from her and heard Weasel Face's voice.

"Hey, hey, what are you doing?"

Alan didn't care. Forget their stupid plan.

He shoved backward with all his strength, almost toppling over. The sound of the metal chair's legs loud and achingly high-pitched in the small room.

As he stared at his hand he entered a faraway world, where nobody else existed, except his own thoughts.

Ten fingers.

No red marks.

Nothing broken.

Yet, something.

Something.

He felt the pressure of his attorney's grasp on his arm.

"What's up Alan? You okay?"

He pulled back to stare at the man and for one second his name disappeared from Alan's memory. Then as though smoke had cleared in his head, he pulled himself together, just enough to reply.

"Man, I'm sorry, I, um, no, not okay. Sorry."

He remembered what he was meant to do then.

Say sorry. Yes, keep saying sorry. Get the kid on his side.

Unable to look at the girl directly, he half-turned his head, so his jaw jutted forward instead.