As we approached Santa Teresa, a drifting fog had curled across the landscape, wispy and pale. I drove along the beach, palms standing out darkly against the soft white of the Pacific. Reba'd been staring at the ocean since it came into view south of Perdido. As we passed the Perdido Avenue off-ramp, she turned her head, watching it recede into the mist. "You ever hear of the Double Down?"

"What's that?"

"Perdido's only poker parlor – scene of my downfall. Had some great times there, but that's over and done with. Or so I hope."

The highway angled inland and she watched the ebb and flow of citrus groves on either side of the road. Houses and businesses began to accumulate until the town itself appeared – two- and three-story white stucco buildings with red tile roofs, palm trees, evergreens, the architecture denned by the Spanish influence.

"What'd you miss most?" I asked.

"My cat. Long-haired orange tabby I've had since he was six weeks old. He looked like a little powder puff. He's seventeen now and a great old guy."

As I took the Milagro off-ramp, I glanced at my watch. It was 12:36. "Are you hungry? We have time for lunch if you want to eat before you meet your PO."

"That'd be great. I've been hungry since we hit the road."

"You should have spoken up. You have a preference?"

"McDonald's. I'd kill for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese."

"Me, too."

Over lunch, I said, "Twenty-two months. What'd you do with your time?"

"I learned computer programming. That's a hoot and a half. Also, I memorized prison stats," she said.

"Sounds like fun."

She began dunking her fries in a lake of ketchup, eating them like worms. "Well, it was. I spent a lot of time in the library reading all the studies they've done on female inmates. Used to be. I'd pick up an article like that and it had nothing to do with me. Now it's all relevant. Like in 1976? There were eleven thousand women in state and federal prisons. Last year, the number jumped to twenty-six thousand and you want to know why? Women's Liberation. Judges used to take pity on women, especially those with little kids. Now it's equal-opportunity incarceration. Thank you, Gloria Steinem. Only something like three percent of convicted felons do any prison time anyway. And here's something else. Five years ago half the killers released from prison had served less than six years. Can you believe that? Murder someone and you're back on the street after six in the can. Most parole violations, you end up doing a bullet, which is a lot if you look at it proportionately. I flunk one drug test and I'm back on the bus.''

"A bullet?"