It could be the passage of time. Three decades. People died, memories faded.

 

Or it could be that they really thought he was dead.

 

Their mistake.

 

Then he settled on the screwed-up release date.

 

If they were coming, it would be tomorrow.

 

Thank God for stupid court clerks.

 

Following the directions given on his discharge papers, he walked to the bus

stop. It was four rusted posts with a shingled roof and a wooden seat worn down

by decades of people waiting for a ride to somewhere else. While he was waiting

he took the packet of parole materials from his jacket and dumped them in a

trash can standing next to the enclosure. He had no intention of attending any

parole hearings. He had places to go that were far away from here.

 

He touched the spot on the left side of his head, halfway between the occipital

bone and the lambdoid suture. He then traced his finger over the sutural bones

to the parietal bones and finally to the sagittal suture. They were important

parts of the skull protecting significant elements of the brain.