“You’ve gotta be flanking kidding me,” Molly said. She looked around the cell, gripping the bars ahead of her; she rattled them in frustration.

“Retirement does this to a man,” the prisoner beside her whispered.

“Does what?” She turned and faced the man in the neighboring cell, who had lounged back on his cot now that the show was over.

“He ain’t been outside in a month,” the man said softly. “Least not until he arrested you.” He scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “I’m impressed he went that far.”

Molly stepped closer to the bars to hear better; her Wadi scurried out of her pocket and crept up to its perch behind her neck.

“Full retirement next week,” the prisoner said. “Great time to be a crook if it weren’t for that damned deputy.” He nodded to the younger man by the window.

“I don’t care about any of that,” Molly said. “No offense,” she added, as she noted the hurt expression on the man’s face. “I’ve got friends in trouble. I need to get out of here!”

The man shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. “Ain’t we all?”

Molly turned to the sheriff. “Excuse me,” she said. “Look, I know it’s not your job to hear out our sides, but don’t you need something more than a man’s words to hold me here?”

“Sure do,” the sheriff said from the other side of his sports section.

“Can I go, then?”

“Nope.”

“Well what’ve you got besides a man’s words?” Molly asked.

“His wounds,” the sheriff said nonchalantly. “Didn’t look self inflicted to me. And you got a slight limp, consistent with the sort of blow a knee would take to move a man’s nose three inches to the left.”

“Ouch,” the prisoner said.

“What about—?”

“Self defense? Not a mark on you.” The sheriff peeked over his paper. “Unless you wanna count the stain of your habit on that left arm of yours.”

“What? No! I don’t do drugs. Hell, I don’t even drink!”

“Sure do curse a lot, though,” the prisoner pointed out.

The sheriff lowered his paper and glared at the other prisoner. “I swear on the heavens, that’s the last word I want outta you. And you,” he nodded to Molly. “You can save your explanations for—” The sheriff leaned forward and squinted at Molly. He slapped his paper down and bolted out of his chair. “Hey, wait a damn second. Didn’t I tell you pets weren’t allowed in my office?” He strode toward the cells, jabbing the air with his gun-shaped finger. “You were in here the other day, weren’t you? Asking about Cripple?”

Molly nodded. “That’s right, and I think she’s in trouble.”

“Aw, hell, Cripple’s always in trouble,” the deputy said.

“Your pet’s gotta go,” the sheriff told her.

“No, listen, she’s really in trouble. I think they’re loading her into one of the shuttles, those shuttles that keep getting shot down.”