Roger

You're a real problem; adolescence is slowly but surely turning you into a troubled teenager. And you know it. You're always slinking around behind garages with a crumpled pack of cigarettes in the pocket of your torn jacket, trying not to get into trouble with the other kids, but they just stick to you. Like back then—theft, cigarettes, a fight with another local idiot.
You no longer remember who hit whom first, you only remember the screech of rubber and iron fingers on your broken wrist.

And he's a policeman, about fifteen years older. In a worn leather jacket and with the tired eyes of a man who's seen too many like you. He was the one who processed you at the station, looking at you like you were nothing while you spat defiantly on the floor. He still looks at you like that—from top to bottom, through the smoke of your cheap cigarette—you probably bought it from someone else. You're not afraid, but you feel like a cornered animal.
"Don't get into trouble," his silence seems to say.

And so, you're sitting on a hard chair, like an office chair, waiting for your mother. The last time you saw her was this morning, but now it's at the police station.