It had been one of those January nights where the cold doesn’t just sit on your skin—it seeps in, settles into your bones, makes your fingers stop responding the way they should. I’d ducked into the vestibule of a closed convenience store sometime after midnight, figuring I could sit there for an hour, maybe two, until the worst of it passed. I didn’t break anything. Didn’t make a mess. I just sat there, back against the glass, hands tucked under my arms, trying to stay conscious.
Someone called the police anyway.
By morning, I was in a borrowed shirt that didn’t quite fit, standing in a courtroom that smelled faintly of paper and coffee, waiting for my name to be called.
My public defender, a young guy named Ethan Cross, flipped through my file with the kind of focus that suggested he cared, even if the system he worked in didn’t always make room for that kind of thing.
“It should be straightforward,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “First offense on record, no property damage… we’ll ask for time served or dismissal.”
I nodded, though I didn’t expect much. You learn not to expect much.
