Daemon

him. Why? He was a three-time loser with nothing to offer anyone. It wouldn’t be long before this was discovered, and then he would be back at Highland – with five more years tacked on. He turned on his side and tried not to think about it. It was so good to feel somewhat human again. To feel like someone cared. Even if it wasn’t true. He fell asleep dreaming of his little boy and what he must look like now at the age of seven.
    The next morning the door to Mosely’s cell opened automatically. He sat up to see two guards standing expectantly in the doorway.
    The lead one held a clipboard and glanced at it before looking up again. ‘Charles Barrington Mosely. Prisoner number 1-1-3-1-9-0-0?’
    Mosely nodded warily.
    ‘You’re scheduled for release today. That why they transfer you down here?’
    Mosely tried to concentrate on the question and nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m from Houston.’
    ‘Well, grab your shit.’
    Mosely grabbed his box of possessions – still packed up onthe floor – and nodded as they motioned for him to leave the cell.
    After walking hundreds of yards down corridors lined with white metal doors pierced by bulletproof portals, Mosely was brought through a series of steel security gates. Cameras stared down from every corner high up on the walls.
    The next few minutes were a blur. Mosely was led into the release office, where an officer behind a steel grate managed the property room. Racks of shelving behind the officer held boxes containing personal items prisoners surrendered on day one. Nervousness unsettled Mosely’s stomach. His civilian clothing. His jewelry. His wallet. He hadn’t even been at Fayette twenty-four hours yet. There was no way those things could have arrived from Highland. He looked around. But none of these guards were on duty then. He resolved to brass it out. Just stay cool.
    The property officer brought a good-sized cardboard box up and scanned a bar code on its side. He looked at the computer screen, then scanned the bar code on Mosely’s jumpsuit. The computer beeped. The officer looked at him. ‘Mosely.’ He slid a slip of paper across the countertop and offered a pen. ‘Review the contents of the box and sign. If this is not a complete list, follow the instructions in section two-A. You can read?’
    Mosely nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
    The guard slid the box over and removed the lid.
    Mosely was numb. He roused himself and pulled the box toward him. On top lay a carefully folded suit jacket, with a crisp boxed shirt and silk tie. These were not his things. He felt the fabric of the suit. Gabardine. Highest quality. He’d had expensive suits in his day. This was excellent stuff. A 48 long. His size. He looked further. Beneath the clothing sat a pair of leather shoes. Black. Highly polished. His size, too. A titanium Rolex watch with a deep blue oyster-shell face lay at the bottom of the box in a manila envelope.
    Mosely looked up. The property officer was typing at his grimy keyboard. The other guards were doing paperwork nearby. No one seemed the least bit interested in him. He was closing out a two-month sentence. No big deal.
    He searched further in the box. There was an excellent leather billfold. Definitely not his. He opened it. A couple of hundred dollars in twenties. But no ID – no driver’s license or credit cards. Whose wallet was this? What the hell was he supposed to do for identification? He looked down.
    There was also a cell phone. It was small, with an aluminum case. Or was that titanium, too? Lastly, a single copper key lay at the bottom of the box in a separate envelope. He looked at the key from several sides. It had no identifying marks.
    ‘Did you sign?’
    Mosely snapped out of it. ‘Sorry, man.’ He hurriedly grabbed the pen and signed receipt of the articles.
    The postern gate buzzed and Mosely walked out past the razor-wire fence into a wide parking lot. He squinted at the hot Texas sun, then looked left and right. He could see a few hazy miles to a prairie horizon. Cars swept by on the nearby state highway. A couple of fast-food places stood across the road, along with rows of clapboard houses and a gas station. A bus stop stood straight ahead at the edge of the parking lot.
    This was surreal. How was it possible for him to be standing here?
    He was already sweating, but he kept the suit jacket on. It made him feel human again. It fit good enough – not great, but it would suffice. The shoes were incredibly comfortable and a