—twenty-five years to life. Which meant—(it has been explained to him more than once)—not that he was sentenced to life in prison, but rather, depending upon his record in the prison, that he might be paroled after serving just twenty-five years.

As incomprehensible to him as twenty-five hundred years might be. For he could think only in terms of days, weeks. Enough effort to get through a single day, and through a single night.

But it was told to him, good behavior might result in early parole.

Though (it was also told to him) it is not likely that a lifer would be paroled after his first several appeals to the parole board.

Where would he go, anyway? Back home, they know him, and he couldn’t bear their knowledge of him, their eyes of disgust and dismay. Anywhere else, no one would know him, he would be lost.

Even his family. His. And hers, scattered through Beechum County.

Who you went to high school with follows you through your life. You need them, and they need you. Even if you are shamed in their eyes. It is you.

Problem was, remorse.

Judge’s eyes on him. Courtroom hushed. Waiting.

What the young lawyer tried to explain to him before sentencing—If you show remorse, Earle. If you seem to regret what you have done …

But he had not done anything!—had not made any decision.

She had been the one. Yet she remained untouched.

Weeks in his (freezing, stinking) cell in men’s detention. Segregated unit.

Glancing up, nervous as a cat, hearing someone approach. Or believed he was hearing someone approach. Thought came to him like heat lightning in the sky—They are coming to let me out. It was a mistake, no one was hurt.

Or, thought came to him that he was in the other prison now. State prison. On death row. And when they came for him, it would be to inject liquid fire into his veins.

You know that you are shit. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. That’s you.

No one came. No one let him out, and no one came to execute him.

He didn’t lack remorse, but he didn’t exude a remorseful air.

A man doesn’t cringe. A man doesn’t get down on his knees. A man doesn’t crawl.

His statement for the judge he’d written carefully on a sheet of white paper provided him by his lawyer.

I am sorry for my roll in what became of my children Lucas & Ester. I am sorry that I was temted to anger against the woman who is ther mother for it was this anger she has caused that drove me to that place. I am sorry for that, the woman was ever BORN.

Pissed him that the smart-ass lawyer wanted to correct his spelling. Roll was meant to be role. Ester was meant to be Esther.