He was led to the front entrance of the prison and handed a packet of materials

outlining his duties and responsibilities as a parolee. These included regular

meetings with his parole officer and tight restrictions on his movements and

associations with other people for the duration of his parole. He couldn’t leave

the area and couldn’t knowingly go within a hundred feet of someone with a

criminal record. He couldn’t do drugs and he couldn’t own or carry a weapon.

 

The hydraulic rams came to life and the metal door opened, revealing the outside

world to Rogers for the first time in a decade.

 

He stepped across the threshold as the older guard said, “Good luck, and don’t

let me see you back here.” Then the rams were engaged once more and the massive

door shut behind him with the whisper of fluid-charged machinery coming to rest.

 

The older guard shook his head while the younger one stared at the back of the

door. “If I had to bet, he’ll be back in prison before long,” said the older

guard. “Why’s that?” “Paul Rogers has spoken maybe five words since he’s been in

this place. But the look on his face sometimes.” The guard shivered. “We’ve got

some unholy badasses in here, as you know. But nobody gave me the creeps like

Rogers. It was as though there was nothing behind the eyes. He was up for parole

twice before and didn’t get it. I heard he scared the crap out of the parole

board just by looking at them. The third time was the charm, I suppose.” “What

did he do to get sent to prison?” “Killed somebody.” “And he only got ten

years?” “Extenuating circumstances, I guess.” “Did the other inmates ever try to