Marcus Kane never rang the doorbell. He always knocked three times like he was announcing he already owned the space he was about to enter.

Tonight was no different.

I opened the door in nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants, fresh shower steam still clinging to my skin. The tattoos across my chest and arms were still shiny from the new piece I’d gotten last weekend: a coiled snake down my ribs, black ink sharp against the scars from county fights.

I’m twenty-four. Six months out of prison. My body still carries that prison hardness, thick traps, veined forearms, knuckles that never healed right.

Officer Kane filled the doorway. Thirty-five. Six-three....