I watch outside the Greyhound as the capitol falls behind. The cop was fair with me at least. He didn’t contact my parole officer. The Bus driver has specific instructions to not let me off until we get home. I have no desire to go back to jail, so I sit patiently as the miles pass by.
My bike is impounded in DC, so who knows when I’ll be able to get that back? I think of Sparrow on the trip.
Trying to add up the pieces, I know it all ties into the 7-11, but there’s got to be something else going on. Somewhere on the trip, I fall asleep. I’m woken by the sun, and the bus stopping. I’m home.
I walk the few blocks to my apartment through a light mist. When I arrive the thunderstorm is waiting for me.
“Hey Jackson,” Red says below that awful hat. “Rahkim wants a word.”