The room smelled of cheap vanilla body spray and the underlying staleness of a house that hadn’t been aired out in years. Jasper lay on the edge of the twin bed, muscles locked in a permanent state of "ready to move." Beside him, Jessica Reece’s breathing was shallow, her eyes darting toward the bedroom door every time the floorboards in the hallway let out a tired groan.

  "You have to go," she whispered, her voice barely a thread in the dark. "My mom is a light sleeper and my dad... he’s got an early appointment at the doctor. He’ll be up any second, and if he finds you here, Jasper, he’ll kill us both. Seriously."

  Jasper didn't argue. He’d heard enough about her father to know the man didn't do "conversations."

  He sat up, the mattress springs shrieking a warning. As he reached for his boots, Jasper’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen flaring to life like a flare in the dark room. A string of notifications from Christy scrolled past—Where are you? Please talk to me. I’m sorry. Jasper?? He flipped the phone face down, the blue light bleeding out against the wood until the room was dark again.

  He shoved his feet into his boots, not bothering to lace them, and moved toward the window.

  A heavy, rhythmic thudding started in the master bedroom. It was followed by a sound Jasper recognized in his marrow—a deep, wet, productive cough. It rattled through the walls, ending in that sharp, phlegmy catch that sounded like boots pulling out of thick mud.

  Jasper froze, one hand on the window frame. I know that sound. A familiar ‘John’ of his mother.

  "Go!" Jessica hissed, shoving his shoulder.

  He slid out into the biting morning air, dropping silently to the damp grass just as the light flickered on in the hallway. He crouched beneath the sill listening.

  Inside, the bedroom door swung open.

  "Jessica! You up?" Her father’s voice was a jagged saw, naturally aggressive even in the quiet of dawn. "I told you I needed the coffee started before I left. I don't have time for you to be lazy today."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "I’m awake, Dad! God!" Jessica snapped back, her voice defensive and sharp. "It's five in the morning. Just leave me alone."

  "Watch your mouth," he barked. "I do everything for this house, and I can't even get a cup of coffee? Get out of bed."

  "Get out of my room!" she yelled.

  A heavy silence followed, thick with the kind of tension that usually precedes a blow. Then, the bedroom door was slammed shut with a force that rattled the window glass inches from Jasper’s head.

  Inside the hallway, the man let out another rattling cough. He pulled his phone from his pocket, the ping of a notification cutting through his irritation. He groaned—a low, guttural sound—as he read the screen.

  Reminder: Mandatory appointment at Burne Memorial Hospital @ 8:00 AM for the new state-directed pilot program. Failure to attend will result in another parole violation.

  "Yeah, yeah," he muttered to the empty hallway, his voice a gravelly rasp. "I'm on my way, you prick."

  By 7:55 AM, the lobby of Burne Memorial Hospital felt less like a hospital and more like a holding cell, full of previously incarcerated men. The air was thick with the scent of floor wax and the restless energy of men who didn't want to be there.

  Jessica’s father leaned against the sterile white wall, arms crossed over his barrel chest. He looked around. The room was packed—maybe fifteen, twenty men, all with the same hard eyes and defensive posture. They were all there for the same early stage pilot program.

  He watched as a grizzly-looking man who had been sitting next to him was called forward. The man stood, adjusted his belt, and disappeared through the heavy double doors.

  Jessica’s father checked his watch. He’d been standing there for an hour. He realized something then—something that made the hair on his arms stand up.

  A dozen men had gone through those doors since he arrived.

  Not a single one had come back out.

  The unease started as a slow burn in his gut. He shifted his weight, eyes darting toward the exit, wondering if he should just take the violation and bolt.

  "Reece!" a nurse called out from the doorway. Her eyes were fixed on her clipboard, her face a mask of clinical indifference. "Mr. Reece? We’re ready for you."

  He hesitated. Then he cleared his throat, that permanent rattle vibrating in his chest one last time, and walked toward the nurse.

  He stepped through the doors. The sound of the men in the lobby fell silent behind him as the doors thudded closed.