If I’m going to be perfectly honest I’m not sure why I’m even here. Other than a piece of paper signed by a judge mandating that I show or face time in the stoney lonesome, that is. So, yes, admittedly I’ve gotten into a bit of trouble but at no fault of my own. The car came out of nowhere and slammed into us so hard that my kid brother’s arm shattered upon impact with the tree across the street. Everything after that fades in and out my memory, white to black, so sporadically that I can’t logically weave the pictures into a narrative.
“Do you know why you’re here today, Madeline?”
“Judge Nemoy,” I shrug dismissively and clear my throat as I scan the pristine clinical environment of the office. It feels sterile. Perhaps the stoney lonesome wouldn’t have been so bad.
“You’ve killed a man.”
“That’s what they say.”
“But not what you know?
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