his home. In time, however, he began to resent the impingement on his freedom. He began meeting a few buddies for drinks again while maintaining a low profile. In time, he began taking his luck for granted. He began drinking on his way to see them, his bottle covered with the traditional brown paper bag. Soon enough, he was drunk wherever he went, and though there might have been a little warning signal in his brain, telling him to be careful, he was too blasted out of his mind to listen to it.
Still, everything might have been okay, had he not borrowed his mother’s car for a night out. He didn’t have a license, but he nonetheless drove to meet some friends at a dingy bar, located on a gravel road outside the town limits. There, he drank more than he should have and sometime after two A.M. staggered out to his car. He barely made it out of the parking area without hitting any other cars, but somehow he managed to head in the direction of home. A few miles later, he spotted the flashing red lights behind him.
It was Miles Ryan who stepped out of the car.
“Is that you, Sims?” Miles called out, approaching slowly. Like most of the deputies, he knew Sims on a first-name basis. Nonetheless, he had the flashlight out and was shining it inside the car, scanning quickly for any sign of danger.
“Oh, hey, Deputy.” The words came out slurred.
“Have you been drinking?” Miles asked.
“No... no. Not at all.” Sims eyed him unsteadily. “Just visiting with some friends.”
“You sure about that? Not even a beer?”
“No, sir.”
“Maybe a glass of wine with dinner or something?”
“No, sir. Not me.”
“You were swerving all over the road.”
“Just tired.” As if to make his point, he brought one hand to his mouth and yawned. Miles could smell the booze on his breath as he exhaled.
“Aw, come on ... not even one little drink? All night long?”
“No, sir.”
“I need to see your license and registration.”
“Well...um...I don’t exactly have my license with me. Must have left it at home.”
Miles stepped back from the car, keeping his flashlight pointed at Sims. “I need you to step out of the car.”
Sims looked surprised that Miles didn’t believe him. “For what?”
“Just step out, please.”
“You’re not going to arrest me, are you?”
“C’mon, don’t make this any harder than you have to.”
Sims seemed to debate what to do, though even for Sims, he was more drunk than usual. Instead of moving, he stared through the front windshield until Miles finally opened the door.
“C’mon.”
Though Miles held a hand out, Sims simply shook his head, as if trying to tell Miles that he was fine, that he could do this on his own.
Getting out, though, proved more difficult than Sims anticipated. Instead of finding himself eye to eye with Miles Ryan, where he could plead for mercy, Sims found himself on the ground and passed out almost immediately.
Sims woke shivering the following morning, completely lost in his surroundings. All he knew was that he was behind bars, and the realization sent his mind spinning with a paralyzing fear. In bits and pieces, parts of the evening came back to him slowly. He remembered heading to the bar and drinking with friends . . . after that, everything was fairly foggy until he saw images of flashing lights. From the deep recesses of his mind, he also dragged out the fact that Miles Ryan had brought him in.
Sims, though, had more important things on his mind than what had happened the night before, and his thoughts centered primarily on the best way to avoid going back to jail. The very thought brought beads of perspiration to his forehead and upper lip.
He couldn’t go back. No way. He’d die there. He knew it with an absolute certainty.
But he was going back. Fear cleared his mind further, and for the next few minutes, all he could think about were the things he simply couldn’t face again.
Jail.
Beatings.
Nightmares.
Shaking and vomiting.
Death.
He stood shakily from the bed and used the wall for balance. He staggered over to the bars, looking down the corridor. Three of the other cells were occupied, but no one seemed to know if Deputy Ryan was around. When he asked, he was told to shut up twice; the third person didn’t answer at all.
This is your life for the next two years.
He wasn’t naive enough to believe that they’d let him off, nor was he under any illusions that the public