What can I tell you? According to my parole officer, there are nearly six hundred thousand registered sex offenders in the United States. A few of them are bound to behave badly. And when they do, we all get punished, even a guy like me.

I get up, I go to work, I attend my meetings, I keep my nose clean. I’m a regular success story. Yet, here it is, five P.M., I’m wrapping up at work, but mostly I’m waiting to get arrested by the police.

By five-fifteen, when half a dozen squad cars still haven’t careened down the streets with lights flashing, I give it up and begin the walk home. I retrace the day in my mind, trying to control my growing anxiety. After spotting the canvassing officers this morning, I did the sensible thing and went to work. After all, the police will find me soon enough, and when they do, how I’ve spent the hours since Mrs. Jones went missing is going to be a key topic of discussion. As it stands, I was half an hour late from lunch, given my talk with Mr. Jones. This anomaly will stand out, but nothing I can do about it now. I had to talk to the guy. After all, my only hope is that they arrest him instead of me.

Now, approaching my front steps, still not seeing signs of men in blue—or, more likely, SWAT team members in flak vests—I realize it’s Thursday night and if I don’t hustle, I’m gonna be late for my meeting. I can’t afford another deviation from my schedule, so I hustle, bursting into my bedroom for the five-minute shower-and-change, then I’m back out the door, hailing a cab for the local mental health institute; it’s not like eight registered sex offenders can hold their weekly support group meetings at the neighborhood library.

I arrive at the front doors at 5:59 P.M. This is important. The signed contract states you cannot be even one minute late for meetings, and our group leader is a stickler on this point. Mrs. Brenda Jane is a licensed clinical social worker with the looks of a six-foot blonde cover girl and the personality of a prison guard. She doesn’t just run our meetings, she controls every facet of our life from what we do or do not drink to who we do or do not date. Half of us hate her. The other half are extremely grateful.