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I blocked them out the best I could. It wasn’t that unusual for someone to recognize me. Riverton was a small town. It also wasn’t that unusual for them to call me a shithead to my face. I figured that was fair. I’d earned that.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Didn’t make my day any better though. And it only got worse when Molly stepped up beside me. “Why don’t you call it a day, Joey?”

“What? I’ve barely started my shift.”

“And you’re already being rude to customers.”

I gave her an incredulous look. “What could I say in that situation that wouldn’t make it worse?”

“You could act as if you care about what you did. You could behave like a decent human being.”

“I care.”

The words came out sullen. I could see from the way her face tightened that she didn’t believe me. That’s why I didn’t argue with people like Jake. Didn’t apologize or beg for understanding. I could go to my knees, and they’d continue to hate me. They’d continue to believe I got off too easy, that I belonged in prison, that I should be the one in the wheelchair.

And the hell of it was, they weren’t wrong.

I clocked out and returned to my Hummer. I turned on the engine and sat there with the engine running, pondering my next move. I now had plenty of time to work on the letter.

Ironically—or maybe not so ironically—I couldn’t face it now. If I went home, I’d only get a lecture from my dad about screwing up my job. I was pretty sure Molly would look for an excuse to shitcan me, and I wasn’t even sad about it.

I shifted into reverse and started driving with no clear destination in mind. I had time to kill and no great ideas for how to do it.

I cruised through downtown, entertaining thoughts of going into Jerkers Soda Shoppe or Sauced Pizza Parlor to eat my feelings, but I didn’t want to see anyone. I drove by the local sports bar, the only gay club, and the pool hall—tempting, so tempting to just drown it all, but the last time I’d hit the bar scene in Riverton I’d nearly ended up back in prison.

I ended up at Clover Leaf Mobile Home Park. Unsurprisingly. Where the fuck else would I go?

It was a Saturday afternoon. Most of the guys would be off work. But I couldn’t face Hollywood’s concern or Knight’s hovering. I went to the one guy I knew wouldn’t make me talk about anything.

I parked next to Ghost’s rusting Jaguar and went up to his tiny tin-can trailer and rapped on the metal door.

When there was no answer, I rapped again. And again.

Finally, the door swung open, Ghost’s silvery hair standing up in tufts. “Wha—Oh. Joyride.” His bushy eyebrows rose. “Well, come in.”

If Ghost was inviting me inside so easily, I probably looked like shit. Story of my life these days. I shuffled inside and dropped into a worn brown recliner immediately to the left. Ghost shuffled through the two feet of clearance space between the chair and his sofa. “Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

His kitchen was little more than a miniature fridge, a microwave, and a toaster. He bent over to open the fridge and retrieve a couple of Coors. He handed me one and took a seat on the sofa.

He cracked his beer open and took a long drink. He didn’t say anything. Just waited.

I opened my can. Sipped it.

“Work is shit,” I said finally.

He grunted. “Been there.”

I fiddled with a string hanging from my hoodie. “It’s always shit.”

He nodded. Took another drink. “Yup.”

We finished the first beer, and he got us a second. I pulled out the letter. Stared at it.

“You finally write it?” Ghost asked as he handed over another can.