At the end of a long, moldy stinking night in Wichita Falls, a double-pane distorted clerk said, “You’re free to go. Your dad is paying your bail.” Acting like a man, I said, “I’ll pay it myself.”
Coming from behind me, from beyond my field of vision, Dad took a step toward the counter. Without raising my head or turning around I could feel a dangerous posture - his back was straight and his arms were crossed. His voice turning beet red, he said, “I've already paid it.” I shut my mouth.
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