“It’s just a joke, Ma!” Pete laughed as sirens blared outside the door. “I’ll be back in two weeks with a pocket full of cash. It’ll be way out; you’ll see.”

Mrs. Wentz sighed. “I don't like jokes like these. Puttin’ my boy in a cell, lockin’ him up like some kind of criminal. They already look at us like we criminals, Peter.” She looked down at her dark skin pointedly.

Pete kissed his mother’s head. “It’s fine, Momma. I'll be back in two weeks,” he repeated. “Don't worry about it! It’s Stanford County Prison.”

As if on cue, a loud knock echoed throughout the house.

“Police!”

. . .

Joshua sat on the hood of his car, smoking a cigarette. He could almost feel his lungs charring with each inhale of the thick, black smoke. He held it in his mouth for a bit before blowing it out. The taste was bitter, but brought comfort to his achy bones. He had been craving this all day.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Joshua smoked with a little more urgency, wanting to at least finish the dose of nicotine before his ‘arrest.’ He chuckled slightly. He had  thought that he'd be chosen as a guard, but being a prisoner would be better. Fifteen bucks a day to just sit on his ass? Wicked.

The patrol car pulled into the driveway. The officer didn't have a chance to even call out the boy’s name before he was speaking.

“Mornin’, officer. Can I finish my cigarette first?”

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