After about a half an hour, the guard stands up. He leans to one side, farts and then paws it away. He grabs a big key ring, the rifle and a tattered book with the picture of naked women inside the faded glossy pages. He points his finger at me as he heads toward the door.

“Going ’round back to drop a load. Don’t try anything stupid or I’ll shoot ya.”

As soon as he’s gone, I crouch down and grip the rusted rebar fixed unevenly in the concrete.

“God, Arn. What happened to you? You alright?”

Arn nods, though I see a wince of pain tighten his mouth before he covers it up. “Got some cuts and bruises. Couple busted ribs maybe.” He sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles. “Ri, you need to go. Don’t mess with the Warden.”

“No way I’m leaving. How’d this happen?”

Arn scrunches up the wall a little and winces again. “Made a fair trade. Got food, gas, odds and ends.” He shifts and grimaces. “Turns out the shopkeeper and the Sheriff been running a scam. Shopkeeper takes your trade and then cries wolf. Sheriff’s thugs lock you up. They split the spoils. Least that’s what I reckon.”

My knuckles go white around the bumpy bars. The injustice of this place and everyone in it makes my head swim.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna get you home. Mama will take care of you.”

Sadness fills the eye not swollen shut. “Don’t let ‘em hear you talk that way.”

I lay my forehead against the bars, the coolness soothing to my feverish skin. A slick unease is settling over me, sending shivers up my spine. This is why my parents never let me come in to town. It’s more horrible than I could’ve imagined. I open my mouth to apologize when a lean shadow darkens the doorway.

“Who are you?” A venomous voice cuts the silence.

A shadow slinks into the room until he forms into one of the most frightening men I’ve ever seen. The man’s black hair is greased flat to his skull. His button-down shirt is as white as Bounty’s milk, a feat so impossible in this landscape I gape in wonder. His down-turned mouth drags up over sharp white teeth that match his white shirt. He can only be the Warden.

“Stand up,” he commands. His acid-green eyes sear into me.

I pull myself upright. The Warden runs his eyes up and down my body. I fight the urge to shudder.

“Darrel says you have bail?” the Warden hisses. The guard trots in the doorway, pulling up his pants.

“I do.” My heart patters in my chest. His eyes seem to see through me.

The Warden laces his long white fingers together. “What’s the item of trade?”

“A quad,” I say. “Yamaha. She runs like a dream.”

His eyes narrow to slits at the word she. My stomach does somersaults.

He steps towards me, so close now I smell onions on his breath. “Pull down your bandanna.”