by ROBERT KIBBLE
thierry Ehrmann : il est interdit d'interdire | Flickr
“What do you mean, I’m out of credit? Already?” Jeb looked at the card, as if by looking it would become loaded again. As if it would turn from a purple ex-offender-release-credit card into one of the prized worker cards with their silver trim.
“Maybe, sir, you should get a job,” said the waiter, stepping towards the door.
“What job? There are no stinking jobs.”
“You won’t get anything out of him, Jeb,” said Ray. “Come on.” Ray put a hand on Jeb’s shoulder.
“I was better off inside,” said Jeb, still staring at the card. “At least we got filling meals.”
Ray pulled harder. “Well maybe you should have thought about that before you went before that parole board.”
As If Hell Were A Real Place
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