The gunman put the pistol in Coop’s ribs and pushed him. “Move it, Al Capone. That way.”

The gunman and the woman walked Coop to a heavy metal door. There was a screen on the side. When the woman put her hand on it, the screen lit up with wild patterns like a wiring diagram combined with an astrological chart. A needle popped out of the wall. She touched it, leaving a drop of blood on the end. More lights and patterns. The screen turned green and flashed WELCOME BACK. The metal door opened.

“Ouch,” said Coop. “You have to do that every time you go in?”

“Every time,” said the woman.

“Do they at least give you a lollipop?”

“Quiet,” said the gunman.

If this is what they do to their own people, what are they going to do to me? thought Coop. What if his driver’s license wasn’t enough to prove who he was? He imagined himself turned into a pincushion while they took quarts of blood. Coop really, really hated needles. When he was five and a doctor tried to give him a measles shot, he’d bitten the guy. While the doctor went to get his mother, Coop had climbed onto a table, pushed one of the overhead tiles out of the way, and crawled into the ceiling. Careful to step only on the brackets, he made it all the way to the front lobby and outside. It was his first escape and still his proudest. But there weren’t any ceiling tiles here, just a masochist and a guy who wanted to shoot him. Maybe I should have stayed in jail.

Beyond the door was a long, painted cinder-block hallway. He’d been in enough of those during break-ins that he felt a little more at home there. Still, where was he?

As they walked, the woman said, “I’m Bayliss. The gentleman with the gun is Nelson.”

“That’s Mr. Nelson to you, convict,” said the gunman.

“Should I call you Charles or Charlie?” said Bayliss.

“Coop,” he said. “Only my brother called me Charlie.”

“Were you close with your brother?”

“If by close you mean we couldn’t stand each other, then yeah, we were the Partridge Family.”

“That’s too bad. My brother and I are good friends.”

“Don’t listen to this crook’s sob stories,” said Nelson. “Next he’ll tell you he had to walk ten miles through the snow to go to kindergarten and sell his puppy to buy medicine for his grandma.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s cranky because he hasn’t had a drink in the last two minutes,” said Bayliss.