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EZRA

The address is in a corner of the city I’ve never been to, despite living in Greenriver my whole life. I swear I’ve driven up and down the highway a thousand times, but I’ve never noticed the exit I took to get here.

I park down the street and flip my hood up against the cold. The wind tugs at my jeans, slicing right through the ragged knees. At the curb, I kick the crusted snow off my boots and look up. In front of me is a dingy ground floor office with no signs anywhere. The curtains are drawn tight. A sign is taped to the door, looking like it was written in Sharpie.

You’ve come to the right place.

What the hell does that mean?

I check the address on my phone, then look up at the building again.

Yep, it’s the same address.

I can’t help feeling like the sign is directed at me, specifically. That doesn’t make any sense, though. I stumbled on the ad on a poster board outside the court while registering my new address. The bulletin had been just as cryptic.

Looking for answers?

Got a problem that needs solving?

Need extra cash?

Call Owyn Maddox.

It honestly sounded like the type of gig that landed me in prison in the first place, but I’m desperate. I’ve got problems that could do with solving, and money would go a long way toward most of them. With a felony on my record, that’s proving impossible.

I took a number for the hell of it, and later that night I called, just for the hell of it again.

To my surprise, someone picked up.

I try the door, uncertainty frazzling my nerves. It’s unlocked. The little belldingswhen I push it open. At the same time, my phone buzzes in my hand — a call from some collections company. I swipe it away quickly. Debt collectors are the least of my problems. If I can’t start making court payments soon, I’m looking at jail time. County jail, not prison, but still.

It’s not a place I want to land again. Never mind that I’d lose my apartment, which I just barely qualified for. It might be a shit-hole, but it’s a step above living out of my truck.No permanent addressdoesn’t look too pretty next tofelonon the resume.

Warm air sweeps over my shins as the door closes behind me. The inside of the building smells musty and kind of damp, like driving through the countryside with a wet dog in the back seat. My boots clunk loudly on the linoleum. Dim fluorescent lights reveal a waiting room with plastic chairs and an empty reception desk.

I cast around for a sign or a person, but there’s only another paper taped to the wall that reads ‘Wait Here’. For a second I consider turning right back around.

An exclamation draws my attention to the reception desk, where a young guy with shiny, cherubic eyes pops into view. “Oh, hello! Are you a hu — a customer?”

“I have an appointment.” I try to sound friendly, then realize I’m still wearing my hood. I tug it down.

The receptionist's eyes widen further, and he straightens behind the desk. I could probably do without the piercings at this stage in my job search, but I’m reluctant to take them out. If the felony doesn’t turn off potential employers, the metal in my face won’t either. Right?

“Yes, of course!” the receptionist squeaks. “Go right in, Mister…"

“Pine. Ezra is fine.”

The guy’s head bobs. “Yes, of course. He's waiting for you, Mister Pine.”

I head down the hall, my face tightening into a stress-induced scowl. When I reach the door with a nameplate that says ‘Owyn Maddox’, I force my jaw to relax and take a deep breath.

“Come in,” a muffled voice calls before I can knock.

The guy behind the desk doesn’t look up when I enter, engrossed in his computer. He doesn’t look like he’s part of a gang, thank god — more like a retired surfer, with narrow glasses perched on his nose and dirty blond hair pulled up in a bun. Bold geometric tattoos circle both wrists where his sleeves have been pushed up, and a braided thong hangs around his neck with some kind of new age-y pendant dangling from it.

I step into the room hesitantly.