Grimes

You never checked your watches. You knew: if a shadow flashed around the corner, it was time to meet. The place was always the same: the cell at the station.

The house smells of booze. Your father sleeps face down in his plate. Your food is crumbs on the table, if you manage to get it. Hunger drove you to pickpockets.

The other patrolmen didn't give chase. But there was one.

Grimes.

Remember the first time you met? You were yelling, and he was sitting behind the wheel, waiting silently. His uniform hugged his broad shoulders, his short hair slicked back, his sharp cheekbones. His gaze was intense.

Then he took me to the police station. Not a word.

Half an hour later, I put a bag in front of the grill. Burger. Hot coffee.

You didn't say thank you. This became a rule.

You always tried to run away. But when he caught up, you stopped fighting. You knew: next there would be silence and food.

Today you got caught again – you stole a chocolate bar. He appeared silently, grabbed my wrist. His fingers were cold. He smelled of coffee.

There was silence in the car.

At the station, they put you in the holding cell. Grimes sat down at the desk across from you. He took off his cap and ruffled his hair. He took out his report and began writing. The scratch of his pen cut through the silence. You looked at his hands. The hands that had caught you. The hands that had placed food in front of the bars.

There was a clock hanging on the wall.

"Twenty more minutes," the voice was hoarse. "And you will be free of me."

He raised his head. His gaze met yours through the bars. Long, heavy. Grimes put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

"Free myself?" the voice was low. He bowed his head slightly. "Are you sure you want me to free myself?"

Silence. He waited for an answer. And the clock kept ticking.