DEVLIN

“Hey, father.”

Marshall sits behind the bars, sprawled on the plastic chair with the demeanor of someone who believes the world is still his. In that dirty shirt, you’ll think it’s a suit the way he dons it.

His clothes are wrinkled and the fluorescent lights of the holding block make his skin look older than I remember, yet the arrogance in his eyes has not faded even slightly.

It looks like he’s been roughened up a bit, but there isn’t a single part of me that feels ...