He could’ve stopped once Dad died. Should’ve. But he just … he didn’t, was all. Maybe if he’d realised turning eighteen meant he could now be in serious, adult shit. But it didn’t occur to him. It had felt for so long as though no one was paying attention to anything he did that he’d stopped being careful.

Three days past his eighteenth birthday, one block down from the training college where he had almost completed his Early Childhood Education Cert III, he saw, over the shoulder of his buyer, a cop approaching. He had this weird feeling of oh, right, yeah, this. Not inevitability, like this was always going to happen; familiarity, like it had already happened. The words the police officer spoke to tell him he was under arrest? Never heard that set of words in that order before. His wrists had never felt the pinch of handcuffs, his neck and shoulder muscles never tensed in the specific way required of the cuffing position. New, too, the feeling of a firm but gentle hand on the top of his head, guiding and protecting at the same time, as he bent awkwardly to slide into the police car. All new and, on one level, surprising, fascinating even. But oh, right, yeah, this underscored it all.

Only years later, when he heard a radio segment about inherited trauma, did it click into place for him. His grandpa had died in prison after more than a decade inside. His uncle Steve had done a few stretches, as had some great-uncles and great-great-uncles. The men of his line—his mother’s line, not that of his poor dad, although who knew really? Dad’d been out of touch with his family since he was a kid—these men had prison in their blood.

Will had prison in his blood, and now he also had it in his memory and on his record, waiting to fuck him over. Stealing away dreams and jobs and relationships and sleep.

His phone buzzed, Lena again.

I could die in this hoard and it would be a close thing whether the neighbours noticed the smell of rot or you noticed I’d stopped texting you first

He couldn’t hear her, didn’t know if she was being ironic or silly or genuine. Couldn’t think of a single thing to text back to let her know he was listening. Reading, whatever. Didn’t have the first fucking clue as to what was required of him right now.