I served eight years for doing the right thing. I thought I’d come home to a quiet life. Instead, I found my hometown under the thumb of a pack of low-life thugs.
The ringleader came to my door and gave me an ultimatum: pay up or watch the house burn. He thought I’d fold. He didn’t realize that in maximum security, I’d survived things he couldn’t even imagine.
The dusty Greyhound bus screeched to a halt, leaving a lone figure on the side of the cracked highway. Mike adjusted the strap of his old canvas duffel and took a deep breath. The air here was different—not the stale, metallic scent of the cell block, but thick with the smell of pine, sun-baked asphalt, and the distant river.
Thirty-five years old. Eight of them had been carved out of his life by a judge who didn’t care about the truth. Mike looked at his hands.
Broad palms, scarred knuckles that had long since healed. He still remembered the night he’d stepped in to protect a girl in a city park. The guy he’d hit turned out to be the District Attorney’s son. The kid spent a month in rehab, and Mike spent eight years in a state facility. He started walking toward the outskirts of town.
His boots thudded against the dry earth. The surrounding fields, once lush and managed, looked wild and neglected. This used to be prime farmland, humming with tractors; now, the wind just kicked up dead weeds. The town of Clear Creek met him with a heavy silence—not the peaceful quiet of a Sunday afternoon, but a guarded, fearful stillness.
Fences were sagging, and many windows were boarded up. His mother’s house sat on the edge of the woods. The gate groaned as he pushed it open.
The yard was overgrown with weeds. On the porch sat a small, hunched woman, shelling peas into a plastic bowl.
“Mom,” Mike said softly.
She flinched, the bowl slipping from her lap, peas scattering across the weathered floorboards. She squinted at him for a second, disbelieving, then let out a sharp breath and pressed her hands to her chest.
“Mike? Mikey! You’re home!”
She hurried to him, feeling as light and fragile as a dried leaf in his arms.
Mike held her, feeling the sharp line of her shoulder blades through her thin sweater. A lump formed in his throat. He’d dreamed of this for eight years, but the joy was tempered by reality. His mother hadn’t just aged eight years; she looked like she’d aged twenty. The evening was spent in quiet conversation.
Mike listened more than he spoke. Eleanor bustled around the kitchen, putting together a simple meal—boiled potatoes, some garden greens, and bread.
“I’m sorry it’s not much, honey,” she said, pouring him some coffee. “Times have been lean lately.”
“Is the Social Security check not coming through?” Mike asked, breaking a piece of bread.
