(The following excerpt opens in Tyburn Federal Penitentiary in Nevada, just after Doc Kane is granted parole, but before his release is processed. He owes a debt to his friend, Old Man Ellis, for erasing an infraction from his record that might have prevented his release. In return, Ellis has asked him for help with one of his scams.) “The [burn] victim’s actual pose, however, is often not revealing. This is because heat dries out muscles, which then contract and draw the body into what’s known as the ‘pugilistic position’--a crouched stance with arms out front like that of a boxer.”   —Washington Post, “Bodies, Debris at Ranch Apocalypse May Hold Many Clues, Experts Say” Just outside the doorway Ellis stands silhouetted against the brightness of the Yard. Doc steps into the sun, leaving the hum of the sewing machines behind. “I knew you was involved in this.” Ellis cracks a smile, the lines around his lips deepening into crevices. “Figured you could use a break.” “Had me a break.” “Yeah, I remember something ’bout a successful parole hearing,” Ellis says. His frayed denims are monochromatic gray and ill-fitting, as if of a previous generation of uniform, reminiscent of stripes and chain gangs. “How you get the Parole Commission to miss my gambling?”

“Files get lost. Not all fellas got complete jackets. Be a whole different story when they computerize this place.” “But regional files? Grippe giving you any heat? He been after me.” Ellis shrugs. The sun’s glare and heat is like a physical assault, hammering in tandem at the stone of the penitentiary walls and buildings. “I stuck to what you told me,” Doc says. “I knew you would, Doc. This place ain’t beat you.” Ellis has never made mention of his own parole hearings, but Doc has wondered for a long time why none seem to come up, especially if the old man can grease the wheels as he’s done for Doc. He claps Ellis on the shoulder, feeling the knobby collar bone under his hand, happy for Ellis’ company. “So how you get me out of work in the middle of such a fine afternoon?” he asks. It’s a rare opportunity to walk in the sun with the Yard empty, never mind the heat. He has to concentrate to keep a dumb grin off his face. The two squat against the perimeter wall, tucked in the narrow band of shade it affords, while around them the ground bakes in the heat, the air warping and twisting. “Was thinking about all that complaining you been doing in the cafeteria. ‘Bout that smell. Thought you could use some fresh air.”