“Hey, pen pals are the shit! That’s how we roll in prison.”

It felt so inappropriate to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

“Guess I just never really warmed up to the whole ‘social media’ thing,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of putting my whole life up on display. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of. Besides, letters have just always felt more genuine. But I’m all about phone calls! In fact, I was just on the phone with one of my teachers the other day—Leif Lindberg. He just started a restaurant in Bern—that’s the Swiss capital—and it’s already opening to rave reviews. It’s called Waldeinsamkeit, and get this: He offered to fly me out there and basically offered me a—”

He stopped himself.

“A what?” I said. Even though the “what” was painfully obvious. “A job?”

Roscoe shifted uncomfortably.

“But you’re not taking it, right?” I said.

“No.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m not taking it.”

He didn’t need to tell me why. We both knew why he wasn’t taking it. There was only one thing tying him down to Carbondale.

A thing who wanted nothing to do with him.

“Anyway,” I said, desperate to change the subject, “we need a way to keep in contact. A secret way so, uh… Carol doesn’t know I’m meeting with you. Because Carol will definitely kill me if she finds out.”

By Carol, I of course meant Wynonna. If anyone was going to get murdered in their sleep, it would be me. I had to handle this situation with tact.

Roscoe stopped nodding. Something seemed to click. “Uh. I have a burner phone.”

“A burner phone?” I said.

What I wanted to say was “What possible reason does a non-criminal have for owning a burner phone?” But that seemed insensitive, given the circumstances. So instead, I merely accosted him with my leeriest stare.

Roscoe seemed to overcome an intense internal battle, and whether he won or lost, the battle ended with a resolute sigh.

“It’s for online dating,” he confessed.

My confusion seemed to produce visible question marks floating around my person like a magical aura. So, he expounded.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” he clarified, “if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just easier not to use your real phone number when you’re dealing with people you’ve never met before. I haven’t even used the thing yet. It’s just… I’m just… you know…” He hesitated.

He said “you know” in a way that indicated that I knew. Which I didn’t.

“I know what?” I said.

“I’m just trying to move on,” said Roscoe.

He immediately seemed to regret it. Shrank beneath his own words.

“Okay,” I said, nodding. “Yeah. That makes sense.”